Our Johnny is the Only One Dancing in Time: Chapter 3
An occasional series of possibly true scenes from a perfectly normal life. Let's call it faction.
Chapter 3: What Kind of Name for a Band is That?
(Chapter 2 Here , Chapter 1 Here)
Even if you’re from a leafy suburb with one train going to the big city every few days, record labels can still sometimes hear the noise you’re making. The noise we have been making is that our gigs are more sold out than ten pounds notes going for a fiver and Gordon Giltrap think we are the best new band in Kent. Even the cloth eared dunces, satin tour jacketed, Phil Collins fanatics that made up major label A&R departments in the eighties can work out that must mean something, and we are consequently going through a brief period of being courted.
Had we been a bit more aware of what it takes to make it in the music industry, which in retrospect thank god we weren’t because we would have made terrible rock stars, we might have understood that the next stage would have been to move to London and bed ourselves into everything that was happening. Fortunately for our future mental health, we genuinely thought we were so irresistibly talented that we should just sit about a bit thirty-five miles away until a large cheque turned up with an invitation to take up permanent residence at Abbey Road. We settled into a pattern of playing whatever shows anybody offered us, occasionally writing a new song, and rushing to the letterbox every morning in eager anticipation of a contract with our names on.
Others were not quite so laid back. The Local Celebrity, who had risen to the heights of regional fame by accidentally scoring a number one hit in Canada with his previous band, had been working hard on his image and his songs. One day we turned on the TV and there he was with a brand-new record on a brand-new label with a brand-new band with a brand-new image. We stared at the screen jealously. Then we looked away from the screen to each other and realised that his new sound was our sound, and the image was our image. I’m absolutely not saying he nicked it; in fact I know he hadn’t because he’d been hanging about being a rockstar in Canada. Like us he had just looked around at all the long coats, boxing boots, tight jeans, white t-shirts, and bandanas currently sweeping through fashion houses like a plague, checked out the guitar sound birthed into fashion by the Bunnymen and throttled to the ground by U2 and thought to himself ‘That looks easy, I will have some of that’. The utterly inconsiderate bastard had then paused only briefly to write one of the most memorable songs of the eighties, slung the whole lot in a video, and begun a journey that would see him and his new outfit conquer the charts all across the world. We were dismayed. Partly because we hadn’t thought much about the song-writing bit, which to be honest wasn’t something we considered to be an essential element of being a successful band, but mainly because we’d gone all the way to London to get those Lonsdale boots.
However, this success threw open the doors at his label who were suddenly in the market to sign a band that they could write off as a tax loss. They had been completely side-swiped by the unexpected world-dominating success of The Local Celebrity, which shows how much they knew about music because I’ve never heard a song that sounded more likely to be number one in multiple countries for at least a couple of months. As a result, there wasn’t a sofa big enough to stuff all the money down and to avoid the taxman taking their ill gotten gains a new signing that wouldn’t be quite as successful was required. We had the coats, the boots, the bandanas, and the guitar sound. We also had a complete absence of anything even remotely resembling a hit in our arsenal of songs, so we were absolutely what they needed. We were summoned to Kensal House and duly piled into the Mini Clubman.
The journey up the A21 is much longer than it appears on a map. Not only do you have to cover the miles, you also need to try and transport yourself from the 1950s attitudes of the town we called home and get your head into the mind space of West London, home at the time to just about the entire UK record industry. We had heard rumours about what might be required to seal a deal and debated among ourselves what should be sacrificed on the altar of inappropriate demands that would be an inevitable part of the meeting. The Guitarist was quieter than normal, taking all the discussion about percentages, breakables, advances, tour support and sub-contract licensing in for thoughtful consideration. Finally, as we turned into Harrow Road, he concluded his ruminations by announcing “I’ll suck him off if that’s what it takes”. This was a very kind and thoughtful offer which somewhat took us by surprise since no sexual favours had been part of the previous discussion. We made a mental note of this declaration of willing personal sacrifice and agreed that if that’s what it took, he would definitely be the one to do it.
We were taking into the largest office we had ever seen and sat down on one side of the largest desk we had ever seen. Our tape was inserted into the cassette deck by The A&R Minion for the listening pleasure of the Record Label Boss. We nodded our heads along, stomped our feet in all the right places, drummed on the table, and enthused loudly about how we were working on new material which might be a bit more commercial.
“We are looking at a couple of acts right now, you’re one of them” announced the Record Label Boss.
“How many is a couple?” asked the Guitarist.
“Well…. Two. That’s what a couple means?”
“Right, right” replied the six-strong maestro. “Is there anything we can do to show you how serious we are. You know… anything? Anything that might make the difference between them and us?”. We can collectively hear him preparing to slip beneath the giant desk to deliver on his promise to make a valiant contribution to our signing efforts.
“Not really, no. Leave this with us. I like you, the team like you, I just want some time to think and consider our options”.
“Well, you know… we are prepared to do whatever it takes. Whatever. It. Takes.” Well, one of us is. He’s already warming his knees up.
Despite the decidedly odd sexual tension now filling the air, we depart without delivering any favours. Two weeks later, the phone rings. It is the A&R Minion and he has bad news.
“Sorry, this was so close. But in the end we’ve gone in a different direction.”
The Guitarist is unhappy with this decision and wants answers.
“It’s that other band isn’t it? Who are they anyway? We could do so much more for you.” This time I think he might be describing record sales rather than anything else, but the A&R Minion is having none of it.
“You won’t have heard of them, but we just think they’ve got something that’s a better fit for where we are right now as a label”
“Well, you’re making a mistake. Who are they? We are selling out everywhere, there’s a real buzz about this band and you’re going to miss out”.
“You honestly won’t have heard of them. We know you’re doing great with live, but we’re really looking for someone totally focused on song writing. They’re called T’Pau”
The Guitarist cannot control his derision.
“T fucking Pow? What kind of a name for a band is that? That band isn’t going anywhere. When you’ve finished mucking about with them, come back to us”.
The phone is slammed into its cradle. We all agree that T fucking Pow is a stupid name for anything, and we begin staring at the phone waiting for the inevitable ring back when the Record Label Boss comes to his senses. We do this for at least six months until T’Pau follow the Local Celebrity by conquering charts all over the world. An outcome that will cause accountants at the record label to hold their heads in their hands and, eventually, our little hopeful band to collapse in on itself. The Guitarist took his talents to pastures new, where his insistence that every song must include at least one lengthy solo was more tolerated but he had slightly less chance of needing to assume awkward positions underneath tables in the pursuit of stardom. We would soldier on for a bit with increasingly bewildering line ups, but most bands get a single shot at a signing and that was ours.
Eventually, you see, it is all about the songs. We weren’t signed, twice, because other artists wrote much better songs than us. Sensible record labels sign acts with songs, or they sign artists that can perform the songs of brilliant writers they already have.
And no amount of boxing boots, sold out gigs, or thinly veiled hints that you are prepared to perform unrequested sex acts on anyone will ever change that.