by Wesley Stace
There was a phone number on the cassette and, first thing Monday morning, that number would be receiving a surprise call from the head of Endymion Records, yes, the very one, no this isn’t a prank call. The future of the Wunderkinds, the band, rolled out before Nick like a Persian rug from which is delivered, at the end, a beautiful woman—or perhaps, in this case, a Grammy or an MTV award.
And as they walked into the Sirens, he ruffled Laurie’s hair and shouted: “Millie, Millie, love! We’re here! I’ve got some amazing news. I’m the man who discovered the Beatles!”
I’ve heard Nick say: “Whatever inspiration made me bundle all those dusty old demos into that plastic bag that day, we’ll never know. Call it luck. Call it fate.” He wouldn’t say “Call it genius,” but he’d let it linger. Who wouldn’t?
But he was kind of a genius, Nick, and it made him, briefly, very rich. He had an idea, inspired by the Wunderkinds, and apparently no one had had it before. He heard a band and he saw a niche—Rock Music for Kids—and he wanted that band to fill that niche, and he didn’t for a moment consider that there were fairly obvious reasons why they couldn’t, or wouldn’t want to.
Rock Music had always been for Kids. It was the spirit of Rock Music. That was what Nick Hedges understood when he heard “Rock Around the Bed.” But then there was that weird bit about the girl pushing the singer down on the kitchen table and how he nearly fainted as they “got acquainted.” Kids didn’t want to hear that; or maybe they did, but their parents certainly didn’t want them to.
But so what? That’s what an edit is for. That’s what A&R men do. Or they get the band to sing another song entirely. Because if Nick had learned one thing in his years at Endymion, including when he himself had bent over and let WBA fuck him royally up the ass for a few million, it was this: if you wave the readies, there is nothing people won’t do. His three favorite sayings were: “Treat me like a whore; I have the ‘integrity’ bit covered”; in second place: “The further Monkey climbs up the tree, the more you can see his ass.” And favorite of all: “Everyone’s a whore. You just need to find out what their price is.” There was a theme.
Nick Hedges and the Wunderkinds were a match made in Heaven and Hell.
4
“I hope we’ve passed the audition.”
GREG’S POTTERING ABOUT, AND THE PHONE GOES.
“Hello?” he says, rather than, for example, “Sugarpill Management: can you hold please?,” as he puts his hand over the mouthpiece, rushes over to the stereo, throws on his band’s cassette, holds the phone up for a bit and sees if he can find Mr. Sugar. Just “Hello?”
“Endymion Records here. Nick Hedges.”
Many would have expected Greg to be fazed by this unexpected call from on high: far from it. He chuckled, started to laugh, fell back on the lumpy sofa and kicked his leg into the air.
“Nick, me old mate, how are you? What do you want, man?”
“Who is this?”
“Who do you think? It’s Greg, mate. Greg Sugar.”
Many would also have expected that Nick, so relatively high up the ladder, might not remember Greg, so relatively low down, but they had passed in their different directions, even shared a rung for a while.
“Greg!” This was going to be easy. Nick hadn’t even thought Greg was still in music, let alone management. “It’s been a while! How are you?” They hadn’t seen each other since the funeral of a mutual friend, a character from the halcyon days.
“Well, my mum’s been ill, you know. Double hernia, which isn’t fantastic at her age but, you know, Chelsea keep winning. I don’t get to go that often, it’s hard to get tickets now, and the weather’s nice so I’ve been riding my bike. Actually, Peachy gave me his wife’s old Raleigh, and I’ve been riding that.” It was instructive that Greg thought Nick had rung up for a bit of a yarn. But that had always been Greg’s technique: disarming friendliness. “So, yeah, you know, skating away on the thin ice of a new day. How are you?”
“Fine. Look, I’m ringing to see what you can tell me about this band the Wunderkinds.”
“The Wunderkinds?” Greg knew he’d betrayed surprise. He had at present only one client, whom he happily, if, by all known professional standards, half-heartedly, managed from his two-bedroom in Archway, and though he’d sent the demos out six months previously he’d received only polite rejections (with the exception of his old muckers at Wanted), clearly written out of respect for Greg’s tenured position around the backstages and VIP lounges of London rather than for the music itself. “We really like the record,” began one of the few he had been happy to show Blake and Jack, “but it’s just not the right time for a label like us to be getting back into this indie market. Some catchy songs, though! And give my love to Pam.” (Greg hadn’t seen Pam in three years.)
“Yes. I’m just ringing the number on the demo. You.”
“Oh, right!” Greg wasn’t worried for a moment that it wasn’t a friendly catch-up call. His mind was racing. “Yeah, hold on a mo then, I’ve got something on the stove.” He located the demo and the Wanted contract that had arrived only the previous morning. “Back.”
“So, we’re really liking what we’re hearing up here at Endymion Mansions,” said Nick. “Love it. And my kid does too.”
“How old’s he now then, Nick?” Greg pictured a sixteen-year-old in his school blazer, a miniature Nick Hedges with similarly big nose and receding hairline.
“Oh, he’s six. He loves it too. We listen to it in the car.”
“Well, there you go—six to sixty. Doesn’t get any better than that. Perfect democratic.”
“Same old Greg. Anyway, we love the tape. Love it. Just love it.”
“You love it. Great. That’s great,” said Greg, and after a wistful pause (his timing perfect): “I only wish you’d got in touch sooner.” Nick knew what was coming next. He was nearly right. Greg reached for an antique RAK Records ballpoint pen and a Neil Young promotional notepad. He had an amazing collection of tchotchkes: he parted his hair courtesy of Haircut 100, thought of the band Ace only when he played cards, and surprised numerous women with his sponsored underwear. “Thing is, we’ve had some other interest.”
“Interest from who?”
“Well . . . an indie . . .”
“Rip up the contract, Greg! You’re coming back to the big leagues. It’s you and me, Greg: the old team. Rip it up! Then we’re gonna rip it up.”
“I can’t rip it up. We gave them our word.”
“You haven’t even signed it yet?” Incredulous. Greg looked at the few empty inches that, in about five hours, Blake and Jack’s signatures would fill. He said nothing. “Well,” Nick continued, “minor sigh of relief. So, no problem. Tell me about the band.”
“Well, don’t you want a look at them or something? They’re a little raw.”
“I like raw.”
“They’re very raw.”
“What is this, the cheese-shop sketch? It doesn’t actually matter how fucking raw they are. Look, can you get in here? I think we should speak first, man-to-man. The thing is: I’ve had a vision.”
A vision. Greg held the phone at arm’s distance and puffed out his cheeks. This had money and trouble written all over it. He had to buy himself time to think, an activity that involved better-informed friends. He was never afraid to ask advice.
“Well, I’ve got my squash lesson in a couple of hours and then I’m pushing my old mum round the gardens . . . hernia, you know.”
“I really think we should meet before you break the news to the band.”
“Well, I’m dangling another label on a string. And you’re only interested. You haven’t even seen them play.”
“Come in tomorrow morning.”
“Sure, yeah. Tomorrow morning. Camden?”
“Wakey, wakey. We’re on Baker Street.”
Oh, fuck, yeah. He’d forgotten. It wasn’t just Endymion money anymore, it was WBA money. American money. Greg looked at a threadbare patch on the rug an
d scratched his head. Endymion. Poem by Keats. He knew weird facts like that from the general knowledge crossword.
“Right, Baker Street. Gerry Rafferty. I’ll be there. Do you have a real door or one of those see-through ones where everyone can see what you’re doing?” Humor was Greg’s way back in.
“See-through.”
“Where do you go for a wank?”
“I have the secretary take care of it for me.”
“Great, man, great,” Greg chuckled. Old Nick Hedges, last seen taking a huge toot off the cistern at that wake. Greg had once had him shut out of a Junkies’ gig at The King’s Head because the Junkies’ junkie manager claimed that Nick had written an abusive review of the band for Melody Maker. “He didn’t do it,” said Greg, who felt sorry for Nick. “No, I know he didn’t do it,” the manager yelled in Greg’s face, “I wrote the fucking review, but it mustn’t fucking look like I did! So get that fucker out.” Greg often found himself the pawn.
“Which label is going to be very disappointed?” asked the fucker.
“Oh, er, well you might not have heard of them.”
“Name?”
“Wanted.”
“Is my silence speaking volumes?”
It was Greg’s silence that had the desired effect.
“Well, I’m sure they’re very able,” said Nick in apology. “But, Mr. Sugar, you tell Whatnot we’re very sorry, we’re having this band. And you can also tell them that we’ll buy Whatnot, if they like, and then we’ll have the band anyway.”
Greg winced and put the phone down. He couldn’t stand big timing. He never again spoke to one particular colleague who, after Greg had left the man thirty urgent messages, finally gave him a reply, which was, in its entirety, “With Joni.” Fucker. Fucking Joni who? Joni Baez? Rickie Lee Joni? He knew it was Joni Mitchell—that was what made it was so annoying.
Greg put his head in his hands. He made three phone calls in quick succession. The first was to his oldest friend, Callum.
“Right,” he said as he was told what to do. “Yep. Okay. Right. Okay. I know. Nothing signed. Yes, but you can’t . . . Yes, I’m a decent man. Put it to the band. Right. It’s their decision, not mine. Don’t talk to the other label. Wanna go for a drink tonight, mate? Alright. On me.”
He next rang William at Wanted, despite the fact that Callum had specifically told him not to. Greg was a sweet and caring man; Callum was the president of a record company for a reason. “William, old mate, yeah, Greg. Yeah, right here on my desk, yeah, looking at it. Yep. Not yet. Nope. Look, I’m meeting with the band tonight. We’ll have some news in the morning . . . no, not news, I mean, I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning. Or afternoon. Maybe afternoon. Yeah, anyway, I’ve got to pop out for my squash lesson. Backhand’s coming along.”
He wished he hadn’t made the call. But, for what remained of his managerial career, Greg was more likely to be dodging bullets in the trenches with William at Wanted than pushing toy soldiers around a table with Nick upstairs at Endymion Mansions, so he really didn’t want William to hate him when this went exactly the way Greg knew it was going to go.
And, in that knowledge, he allowed himself to fall into a reverie. When this went the way he knew it was going to go, if, just if, everything went right, despite the unlikelihood of things ever going right at cowardly record companies who ruled by committee, lived in thrall to the bean-counters, and spent their entire time playing catch-up . . . despite all that . . . perhaps just once it would go right. And perhaps, just once, he’d fallen over an act around whom everyone would gather like flies on sherbet and he’d be at the center of that sticky cluster-fuck. And perhaps therefore, he’d find another and then another . . .
But this unspooling fantasy of managerial Risk only served to depress him: what he wanted was to play squash and wheel his old mum round the gardens. He was cozy in Archway with his cat and his Evening Standard, happy with his place on the ladder. He liked going to Los Angeles but the sun burned his freckled skin before long. He preferred his pub where he could tell stories about the old days, which had been good, when labels were run by a lone lunatic who led by example and took brave decisions for which he alone took the praise or blame, a man who threw a lot of spaghetti at the wall in the hope that some would stick. There were approximately three of those lunatics left, he remembered: and one was in charge of WBA. Norm Bloch.
He picked up the phone with renewed vigor and left Blake a message. “It’s Greg. Give us a tinkle. Actually, there’s news. Quite big news. Band meeting tonight. Maybe 6 p.m. at the Coachy? See you there.”
At the Coach & Horses, the entire band had come prepared for their signing photo. Blake, wearing a crown, was brandishing a large peacock feather as a fake quill and a photographer friend was ready to capture the historic moment. Greg waved, raised his eyebrows, mimed a pint, then rubbed his fingers together for money, and pointed to the bar with his hitching thumb. Everyone was spoken for.
“Got the contract, Greg?” Blake didn’t care much for business, but he was always up for having his picture taken wearing fancy dress. Greg was constitutionally unable to get straight down to it. He liked a lengthy preamble, a lot of banter. The entire band knew something was up when he launched right in.
“No contract. Look . . .” And then, as if remembering himself: “Alright, everyone? Nice to see you . . .”
“Don’t they want to sign us anymore?” asked Jack gloomily; most of the hard talk fell to him.
“The contract is waiting on my desk. We can sign it now if you like. There’s news.”
“Is it good news?” asked Blake cautiously. The feather was now behind his ear. “News, though.” He weighed the word. “It’s just good that there’s news. News is good news.”
“No news is good news,” said Jack.
“No,” said Blake firmly, ready to riff: “news is good news. We don’t normally get news. The last time we had news was . . .”
“Well,” said Greg, “there’s nothing bad about it. It might put us in a temporarily awkward situation, but it might be the best thing that’s ever happened. I got a call today from an old friend called Nick Hedges; we were at Clarion together way back under Carey-Jones”—Greg hadn’t been to public school, but, his tales of seniority and double-barreled surnames made a seventies record label seem a little like Eton—“and in fact I used to date his mum then, but I don’t know if he ever knew that.” Usually this would have been the blast off to a lengthy anecdotal orbit round the planet of Greg’s sexual escapades, but even he now stayed on message. “Anyway, he runs Endymion, who’ve just been sold to WBA, and . . . well, he wants to make an offer for the record.”
“What record?” asked Jack.
“What record do you think?” asked Greg. “Yours.”
“Quack! But what about Wanted?” asked Blake, exactly as Greg himself had, exactly as Greg had known it would be the first question out of Blake’s mouth. Because Greg had taught him all he knew.
“Well, I’m meeting with Nick tomorrow, and let’s assume nothing’s going to come of it, but let’s not sign the Wanted contract just yet. That’s all I’m saying. It’ll be your decision, after you meet up with Nick. But for one night in our lives, let’s play hard to get.”
“What exactly did he say?” asked Jack. And Greg told them exactly as much as he wanted them to know of exactly what Nick had said.
“So this was in the pipeline and you didn’t tell us?” asked Jack. One of the twins was playing imaginary drums, using a pint glass with a beer mat on top as his snare. The other twin poked him in the ribs. They didn’t usually contribute much to the decision-making process.
Greg laughed. “Well, I sent him the tape, didn’t I? It just took him a little time to get to it.” He would never claim credit where it wasn’t due.
“Did you make a follow-up call after you sent out the cassette?” asked Jack.
Greg was just about to answer, slightly defensively, when Blake said, with a big smile on his face, “B
oys, can we just bask in the moment for a second? Greg, it’s wonderful. It’s amazing. We have another offer for the record.”
“Bidding war!” chorused the twins.
Every glass raised in Greg’s direction.
“I mean, I’m not gonna sit here and tell you it was a managerial masterstroke,” he said. “He had the tape from me months ago, and I was sitting at home and the phone goes and it’s him—that’s how rock ’n’ roll happens—and I’m going to meet him tomorrow morning and then he’ll want to meet you.”
“Is he gonna want to see us play?” asks Jack.
“As sure as ferrets is ferrets!” said Blake.
“Probably,” said Greg, “but he said that wasn’t strictly necessary. They just love the demo.”
“Well, we should tell Wanted,” said Blake.
“No,” said Jack, ever the older brother. “They’re offering us tuppence and friendship. Endymion is the real thing. That’s payday. This is my job and to do it, I need a salary. Let’s hear what they have to say.”
“Well,” said Greg, “I’ll go meet with Nick tomorrow, but he sounded very enthusiastic. More than enthusiastic.”
“Why don’t me and Blake come with you?” asked Jack.
“Well, we can’t have everyone, can we? Nick and I are old friends, perhaps he wants to have a private chat, you know. There shouldn’t be a hitch,” said Greg, knowing there was always a hitch, that the whole thing would be full of hitches.
“There’s always a hitch,” said Jack.
Nothing pissed Greg off except gloominess. Very often he was heard to describe people he didn’t much like as “the most miserable man in the world”: they had it all on a plate and they couldn’t appreciate it. Why were bands always at their most miserable when things were looking up? A little thank you would go a long way as well.
“Cheer up, mate,” said Greg. “It might never happen.”
“Sorry,” said Jack. “It’s how I cope with good news. You should meet our old man.”