All Tomorrow's Parties

by Nicole Fitton

  To Jim my rock,

  thank you for everything

  Text copyright © Nicole Fitton, 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted and all rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the copyright owner.

  All names, characters, places brands or media and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Acknowledgments

  With abundant love and thanks to…………………….

  My wonderful family - Jim, Aaron, Josiah & Nathan for their overwhelming support and love. This book has been a labour of love for many years and would not have seen the light of day if it wasn’t for being upheld everyday by my wonderful boys xxx love you xx

  OK mushy part over with.

  Thank you to my lovely sister Dene who lived through the whirlwind that was the 1980’s and survived semi intact: we made it sis!

  Thank you Chris Roberts for being honest with me and dotting my I’s and crossing my t’s!Thanks to James at GoOnWrite.com for the cover design. Thank you to all my music industry ex-colleagues who made the 80s, 90s and 00s such a wonderful time to be growing up and involved in the industry. I can assure you all that while you may recognise some of the places and music mentioned, everything else is completely fictional, promise. Please don’t go reading too much into it …. It’s made up, honest!

  Lastly I would like to say a big shout out to all of the musicians and artists who on a day to day basis made me think about my small chunk of the world differently, thank you for your passion and inspiration.

  Thank you to Japan for introducing me to their rendition of The Velvet Undergrounds All Tomorrow’s Parties: we all have a seminal song and this one is mine.

  1

  At 18 years of age Laine Marshall was living her life the way most 18 year olds dream of. Having left home and school at 17 she had fallen into working as a PR assistant for one of the hippest record companies around - Vestal Records. Laine didn’t just make the tea & do the photocopying; she did it for the best & hippest bands around!

  Her boss Adam Brighton was a naturally good manager. He gave his small, tight-knit team of four enough freedom for them to feel they were all the most integral part of the team. He would stroke their egos just enough to get the best out of them without creating any diva-esque nemeses.

  Each one truly was an important part of Vestal’s growing success in the heady music PR arena. Adam loved analogies and would often wax lyrical about the strength that came from standing together as a solid team. He maintained that the hand could not work without the arm, or the leg without the foot. It had taken a big stretch of the imagination when he started discussing how the butt could not work without the mouth! Playing the lovable rouge so skilfully allowed Adam a longer length of rope than the others.

  Vestal’s PR team were deft and skilful. They confidently navigated their way through the thorns and wit of many a journalistic sniper. Artful and diplomatic, they diffused many a damaging headline, exerting a confident and calming influence on all who came across them. The art of music PR was not so much about promoting great music but more about making others believe that the bands you were promoting really were the best thing since sliced bread. Many a new band’s career was decided over a liquid lunch and the skill of the publicist.

  Adam Brighton (AB), was the author & perfectionist of Vestal’s current PR strategy, a man who could make a story with a backbone appear out of thin air just in time to steal the headlines. A cheeky chappie if ever there was one, equally at home discussing the nuances of synthesizer pop or standing on the terraces watching Tottenham play. He had a passion for music which he wore like a badge of honour on his sleeve.

  His deputy, Reggie Fraser, was altogether a different animal - a gritty down-to-earth Scotsman and former journalist at The Daily Record, a real man’s man if ever there were such a thing. Keen to take on any who dared challenge him, Reggie could drink most people under the table, with very few exceptions. What he confidently portrayed in the drinking dens of West London however was put to the test around women. Under-confident from spending too many formative years alone in his bedroom listening to the Skids and Bowie, he floundered and stumbled around anything vaguely feminine.

  Ambra Jones was the only other female member of the team. A fiery redhead, Ambra had been Laine before Laine was Laine. Ambra was one of Laine’s closest allies. It was Ambra who had taken Lanie under her wing when she first started at Vestal. She herself had been there and knew exactly how much testosterone was flying about. She had provided insight on how to avoid the pitfalls that trapped a lot of young girls entering the music industry. A staunch feminist, Ambra made sure Laine learnt the ropes without too much crap from the male dominated workforce. Even though Laine was the youngest and most inexperienced person in the entire company, Ambra always made her feel an equal, especially when she came out with the stupidest things - which was quite often!

  Laine was the most fragile and inexperienced member of the Vestal PR team. A young, beautifully naive 18 year old girl from South East London. Gullible beyond belief, yet mesmerising because of it. She lived high up in the clouds, not noticing the heads turning as she walked into a room.

  She often wondered how she had managed to be so lucky. This was her first ever job (apart from being a Saturday girl behind the record counter at Woolworths), and she loved every second of it.

  Leaving home at 17 had been the best decision she had made. She had been confined and trapped at home and had found it hard to find space to breathe and be herself. It had never been easy being there. Her every utterance put down, her every move questioned. There was a point when she knew she had to leave. She was on the verge of becoming someone she didn’t want to be, forced to conform to her mother’s ideas of who she should be. Her creativity and individuality had been pushed down at every turn.

  Danny had been her rescuer and she hadn’t looked back since. Danny had been a regular customer at the Woolies’ record counter. A 60s soul DJ, Danny was twelve years Laine’s senior, and her first real boyfriend. She was not head over heels in love with him. She adored him, yes, but love? Well, that was something altogether different.

  To say he’d been around the block a few times was an understatement; he had practically written the map. What Danny didn’t know about 60s soul music wasn’t worth knowing.

  Crates and crates of 7-inch singles piled high in the tiny hall of their one bedroom flat in Brockley, South London. Visitors to the flat for the first time always

  stood in awe of the myriad of Jaffa, Tizer and apple crates that screamed out soul as soon as the front door was opened.

  A bizarre scent of vinyl and wood filled the hallway. Each crate held its precious cargo precariously, clinging to the crate below or above - a tightrope-walker balancing mid-way across a rope. So far they had been lucky; not one had crashed to earth. It was however only a question of time - bricks without cement could only hold for so long. Danny’s passion for music was only trumped by Laine’s desire to learn all she could about the 60s soul scene. Music had kept her together way before Danny had rescued her, it had been her security, her refuge.

  She would shut herself in her bedroom with her record player and listen to David Bowie’s Low or Japan’s Gentlemen Take Polaroids. Even though some of the meanings passed her by, she felt the emotions within each vocal performance and could empathise, and align herself to each heartfelt chord.

  Music had a way of touching her deepest, most hidden self. It unlocked the truest part of her, a par
t of her life that was not a series of hoops to jump through but a journey which had the capacity to carry her through the darkness and out to the other side. Music connected her. All of her unplugged nerves and sinews merged, working

  together, lifting her above the clouds. She would close her eyes as she journeyed through the opaque mist, weightless, music running through her veins, pushing her forward, willing her to live.

  Landing a job at Vestal had been like a dream come true. She had secured the job by just being herself. She had seen it advertised in Music Week, one of Danny’s music trade magazines. It was his encouragement that had spurred her into action. Armed with not much more than a puffball skirt and a love of music, she had no idea of what to expect and had just gone to see what it was all about. With hindsight, she realised that she was as much interviewing Vestal as they were interviewing her.

  Vestal had been started in the 1970s by James Cranton, a wealthy hippy with an eye for a good investment. Cranton had financed and backed Fledgling, one of the 70s’ biggest selling bands, and had been paid back big time. With the money made from the multimillion selling albums of Fledgling, Cranton had started his own label – Vestal.

  Based just off the Portobello Road in West London, Vestal had gone from strength to strength, and had now become one of the hippest labels around.

  Having no understanding of how an interview should go, Laine did not think it strange that Adam Brighton had only spoken about music. He had asked her opinion on whether she felt the New Romantic movement had breathed its last breath. It was certainly a hot topic of discussion within the music press and also within Vestal: it had taken up 30 minutes of the 60 minute interview. Adam didn’t seem to care that she only had 5 O-levels and no experience (other than her Saturday job). Her heartfelt love of music was contagious and genuine. Within an hour the job was hers.

  It came as a major revelation to her colleagues that Laine could not type (this had not been something covered in the interview). After all she was working in a PR department and would be responsible for typing up biographies and press releases!

  To begin with they made fun of her South London accent and how her spelling was crap, but after a while everyone came to see what Adam had first seen at the interview, a bright, beautifully naive girl with a passion not only for music but a love of life and a willingness to learn. There were no sides or hidden agendas with Laine (unlike a lot of people in the music industry). She would have made a lousy poker player, an open book easy for even the most unobservant to decipher. A working class girl from a one parent family was a bit of a novelty within an industry where most at least had some kind of degree (and the majority had two parents). For all the talk of “the street” and “an angst ridden life”, most were at the very least middle class and at the very worst tone- deaf!

  Her life was now propelled full pelt through the weird and sometimes wonderful world of Vestal. The diversity of life contained within her ever-expanding circle left her at times speechless. She embraced her new path in awe of the sheer amount of creativity that she was now a part of.

  Ella O’Mara was one of those “weird in a nice way” kind of girls who worked in the promotions department of Vestal. Absolutely the friendliest person Laine had ever met.

  Ella quickly became Laine’s best friend and numero uno drinking pal. Although not joined at the hip physically, mentally it was a sure-fire match. Ella was three years Laine’s senior and had been around the music industry a while. Ella saw straight away Laine’s vulnerability and immediately appointed herself as guardian and protector. Ella gave Laine some much needed insight into the workings of Vestal. She explained why you never went to see Simeon (the artistic director) first thing in the morning (serious arty type – Hangovers R Us, no work till midday kind of guy) and why you never spoke to Becky about your age (older woman, Ella’s boss, wrong side of forty and very hung up about it).

  Ella was the big sister Laine had never had and at times very much had needed. They were however the most unlikely looking sisters. Laine – tall, strawberry blonde, her steely blue/grey eyes piercing any that held her gaze too long. Ella - auburn haired with moss green eyes, a real Celtic beauty. A fraction shorter than Laine in stature, Ella was miles taller in attitude. What most people thought but dared not say Ella would dare. There was no off switch or filter, which sometimes led to awkward silences and a lot of staring at the floor. This was one of the many reasons Laine loved her. Ella’s family were originally from Ireland but had moved to Preston when Ella was four. She was the middle one of five sisters. She had a natural creative flare for making original clothes with a sniff of vintage about them and was often seen sporting her latest creation around Vestal. Her passion for music was akin to Laine’s: being in a room with the pair of them was infectious but also a little scary.

  “Oh shit.” Laine had just missed her bus from Victoria. Her journey was a tedious one. It was OK living with Danny, but living in South London was as far away from Vestal’s Notting Hill Gate location as you could get.

  Mondays were always tough, she told herself. That weekend had been particularly adventurous: Friday night spent with Ella in the Earl of Suffolk pub, then on to The Wag Club in Wardour Street, as usual blagging their way in, dancing till god knows what time then home to Danny via a dodgy mini cab. “No luv, you sit in the front and if we get stopped you’re my friend” - very dodgy. Sleep till 5pm, dinner, then off with Danny to the 100 club for a 60s all-nighter. Home, sleep, up at 2pm & then off to Camden Market for a bit of lunch and shopping. No wonder Mondays were tough.

  As she boarded the number 52 bus at Victoria station Laine contemplated her life with Danny. “He adores you and you adore him”, she told herself as the bus trundled towards Hyde Park Corner. If I tell myself I can fall in love with him enough times, it will come true, she thought, ignoring the nagging doubt at the back of her mind that seemed to get louder each time. The nagging doubt told her she was not yet where she should be, and this bothered her, especially, it would seem, when she was tired. Too much alcohol, not enough sleep, she thought as the bus hummed its way up Park Lane and along Bayswater. The sun was shining and a car somewhere was playing “Mr Blue Sky” by ELO.

  Despite the journey, she looked forward to work each day. She loved her job and enjoyed the people she worked with. Reggie was the busiest press officer at the moment and needed all the help Laine could give him. His band Mace Nation had just released their second

  single, and Radio One and the NME had gone crazy for it. Who would have thought that a band whose male lead singer wore tons of make-up and dressed like a girl would be the next big thing?

  “Reggie will want coffee, then to see all the papers… urrgghh the papers”, thought Laine. It was part of Laine’s job as the PR assistant to pick up all the daily newspapers from the newsagents on her way in. She had to methodically go through them, page by laborious page, and circle all articles relating to any band signed to Vestal. As it was Monday she had all the weekend papers as well. This was the only part of her job she loathed. Sometimes if the department was really busy she would end up taking a stack of papers home on a Friday night. Laine, Danny and a Pritt stick would spend the best part of a weekend cutting, sticking, and labelling onto A4, ready to file on Monday.

  She made it to the office at just after 10am. Thankfully everyone else seemed to be running late as well. She was the first to arrive, which made her smile. It meant she had time to sit down quietly, grab a black coffee and skim the papers before craziness set in.

  The phone rang. “Hello Press Office”, said Laine breezily. Some people had a “game face”, Laine had a “game voice”. A voice she only used when answering the phone at work. A voice that was just a little bit too sweet, but at the same time still South London enough to keep it raw and fresh. It said: yes I work here and yes I can help you but don’t give me any of your PR bullshit.

  “Laine is that you?” said a Scottish accent she instantly recognised.

  “Yes,
hi Reggie”.

  “Do me a huge favour would you? My train from Crewe has been cancelled so I won’t be in till after lunch - can you cancel my lunch with Tony at Trash Central?”

  “Sure no problem, what are you doing in Crewe?” said Laine.

  “Long story, I’ll tell you later. Just be careful when you speak to Tony, OK?” His voice was now sounding low and very fatherly.

  “Get off my case Reggie, I can make a phone call you know, bye”. She replaced the receiver rather sharpish; she did not want to hear his fatherly advice for the umpteenth time.

  Adam appeared at the door. “Want a coffee Laine?” His black hair looked perfectly tousled. I wonder if his hair is naturally dishevelled or if he spends hours in the mirror every day thought Laine as she finished making her “to do” list for the day.

  “No thanks Adam just had one. That was Reggie on the phone, he’s stuck in Crewe so I need to cancel his lunch with Tony Black”, she said, half looking at him and half putting the lid back on her very cheap but lovely fountain pen.

  Adams caught her eye. “Sure”, he said, his gaze intensifying. “Just watch him - we all know he’s got a thing for you” - his voice drifting as he turned and headed towards the hallway that linked the Press Department and the International Department.

  Why did both Reggie and Adam have to do that to her? Laine hated this kind of talk and felt uncomfortable when attention was pushed onto her. True to form she blushed: thankfully Adam was already half way down the hall so could not see her unease.

  “Will you just stop, it’s only a phone call, I’m not that incapable of looking after myself!’ she shouted after him, the anger in her voice now evident.

  So what if he fancied her? She tried to analyse why people felt the need to “mother” her. Tony Black fancied loads of girls, so what? She was eighteen years old for goodness’ sake - she could take care of herself.