Stardust

by Ray Connolly

  As Mike listened expressions of joy and incredulity swept across his face in waves.

  That’s it, he thought. Now I know we’re going to make it. First Clay, then us. And as the commentator told of how Cassius Clay was running round his Las Vegas ring screaming at everyone about how pretty he was, and how beautiful he was, and how he really was the greatest, Mike Menarry went into a victory jog around his bedroom, arms above his head in triumph, Which was as much for himself as for Clay.

  And the next day when Jim Maclaine apologized for his behaviour the previous night, throwing in the bravado line, ‘Honest, Mike, two Who would go together, that was just too much to turn down,’ all Mike could think of to say was: ‘You’ll make a wonderful champion, Jim.’ And he knew he would.

  Chapter Six

  Ronald Harrap had more good fortune than he could possibly have anticipated.

  Colin Day was a man born into music publishing, but he was anxious now in the early sixties to move his father’s old established Denmark Street outfit more into line with current trends. There had always been money in music publishing but Colin Day, now aged 35 and with the reins of power firmly in his hands, knew instinctively that the next decade would see more fortunes made than had hitherto been seen in the whole history of music. So it was a pity in some ways that his father Arthur Day, the man who had moved the family into Tin Pan Alley, had been deprived of benefiting from his son’s vision by an unhappy heart-attack on the previous New Year’s Eve. But then Colin liked to console himself with the reminder that Dad wouldn’t have cared much for the new music anyway, just as he hadn’t cared for Elvis Presley and had missed out on the first rock and roll boom.

  So it was that in the early months of 1964 young Colin at last found himself at the head of the kidney-shaped walnut table, looking keenly around for new, modern talent to promote. He knew there was talent around, it was just a matter of finding it. To his mind Dick James had proved just what could be done with the right boys and the right sound, and now the whole of the industry was in a ferment trying to come up with some kind of competition. The boom was growing, and he knew it had hardly started. And he, Colin Day, new head of Dayray Music and affiliated companies, was anxious to be a part of the rearing monster.

  And then right into his life came a fussy man called Ronald Harrap, a man who told him he had worked on the same bill in Southend as his father in 1946 and who said he had something in which he thought Arthur might now be interested - both he and Arthur now being in the same line of activities so to speak. The news of Arthur’s recent death came as distressing news to Ronald, since he remembered him as a fine and good and healthy man, but he cheered up considerably when young Colin began to show a faint but distinct interest in his wares.

  ‘Where are they from?’ asked Day as he listened to the Stray Cats’ acetates, discs made from tapes recorded at one of their rehearsals.

  ‘All over the place,’ said Harrap. ‘Mainly the West Country and the South.’

  Thank God, thought Colin Day. What the world didn’t need now, indeed would not hear of now, was another Mersey group. He listened carefully to the acetates, pretending nonchalance because that was the way his father had always behaved before him, and partly because that was the way he felt would most impress.

  ‘How many singers?’

  ‘Two lead singers. Jim Maclaine also writes his own songs. That’s one of his now.’

  Outwardly Colin Day smiled patronizingly, but inside his inner ear was cocked to the sound, structure and the timbre of the music like a sprinter waiting for the sound of the starting pistol. What he heard didn’t excite him tremendously. One boy seemed to be doing a fair imitation of the Everly Brothers which was about five years out of season, while the other had a rougher, more bluesy voice, more affected than the first if anything but without the strength of good material to back it up. Yet, all songwriters had to start somewhere and there was a quirky, half-hidden weirdness to his songs which made them somehow distinctive.

  He considered his finger-nails, and carefully clipped a piece of nagging skin from his right thumb. What should he do? They weren’t a bad little group, the drummer was certainly exceptional: but were they worth an investment? On a hunch he decided that he’d take the risk. The boy who sounded like Don Everly could be lead singer and he’d look for some American rhythm and blues songs for him to cover, and this bloke Jim Maclaine could be on the flip sides. If they recorded for the family firm, Dayray Records, and Dayray Music Ltd published all of their original material, he was certain to reap the maximum benefits if there were to be any. He decided to try them out for three singles. They would be covers of three American hits and three B-sides written by Jim Maclaine. By the laws of the industry the publishers of flip-side songs made just as much money as those who owned the hit and with a little luck and a lot of hype they might just manage that. Anyway, he wanted to meet them.

  ‘Okay, Ronald. Since you were a friend of my father’s I’ll give your boys a chance. When can I meet them?’ Harrap nearly fainted with surprise and relief.

  ‘Well, they’re in Brighton.’

  ‘This afternoon?’

  ‘Well …’ Ronald didn’t really want to wake them up too early but on seeing Day’s expression he decided that curse him though they may, they would one day thank him … ‘yes … I’m sure they can be here by this afternoon.’

  ‘Shall we say 4.0?’

  Day was playing his businessman’s role with speed and confidence. Harrap would have done anything to please him.

  And so it was arranged.

  To the Stray Cats, Denmark Street in 1964 was simply the centre of the world. At first they had been sceptical when summoned to come immediately from Brighton but as they approached London nerves began to grip the whole group - even Mike. It was a long time since any of them had been in the West End and their first emotions were those of surprise. In the two years that they had been away it seemed as though everywhere had changed, not physically (although Harry Hyams’ Centre Point now stood over the tiny Denmark Street like a giant profit block drawn on a skyline graph of London) but in a more subtle, shop-window sense. Suddenly the streets were full of pretty mod girls, all the boys looked like George Harrison and outside Anello and Davide youths queued to buy their Beatle boots. If England as a nation was caught up in a ridiculous youth fervour which made princes out of popinjays and queens out of crabby little models, then London was as always the seat of the realm. From every angle it seemed to the Stray Cats that they were being bombarded with new styles, new sounds, new faces and new values. To Mike it all seemed quite ridiculous, and he wondered how long it would be before the establishment put pop firmly back in its back street place.

  By most people’s standards Colin Day’s offices were no more than functional: to the Stray Cats they glistened with promised wealth.

  ‘We’ll be up there one day, lads,’ joked Stevie nervously as, entering the ground floor lobby of Dayray House they were confronted with a company list a good three feet deep.

  ‘Dayray Records Ltd., Day Music Ltd., Arthur Day Publishing Ltd., Dayray Holdings (1948) Ltd….’ J.D. was reading through the company list as though it were a litany that had to be recited before they could get into the lift. ‘Dayray Sounds Inc. (London Office), Dayray Studios Ltd., Dayray Properties Ltd., Dayray Recording Services Ltd….’

  Harrap, who had met his proteges outside, scalding them like a fussy hen, edgily cut him short: ‘Please … J.D.! Now I want you all to try your best to impress Mr Day. He’s a very nice man, and very important. One day you may look back and see this moment as the turning point in your career …’

  Johnny snorted nervously: That’ll be the Dayray,’ he quipped, which was, everyone later agreed, the wittiest thing they could ever remember him saying.

  Colin Day knew exactly how to handle lads like the Stray Cats. Before he saw them he had his secretary take some of the chairs out of his office so that, of necessity, the group must sit largely on the f
loor. And then when they trouped in he leaned back comfortably behind his desk, his head virtually (but never quite) touching the single gold record his father had earned for a dance band version of Kisses At Fifty, and smiled condescendingly down on them. This way he had the psychological advantage from the beginning which was the only way he was interested in working. Mike was the only member of the party who, when invited to sit on the floor, said he preferred to stand.

  ‘I’ve listened to your acetates, boys,’ said Colin Day, his eyes running across the whole of the group, but fixing mainly on Johnny and Jim, ‘and I think they may be promising. However …’ he paused … ‘I don’t want to raise your hopes too high because, as you know better than I do, there is, at this moment in time, a glut of groups on the market … and without putting too fine a point on it, a lot of them can offer something which you desperately need in the way of … shall we call it professionalism?’

  He looked round at the group. Mike wondered if the twat always spoke in riddles.

  ‘Anyway … despite advice to the contrary I’ve decided to give you a chance … Ronald and I being old friends.’ A slow smile spread across Colin Day’s face, and he looked at Harrap. Harrap smiled back. It was good to be described as the old friend of a top publisher, even if it was a lie. Anyway, the Stray Cats would be impressed. Pity about poor dead Arthur.

  The Dayray Recording Studios were in the converted basement of Dayray House, and it was there that the group assembled one late afternoon just three weeks later, each one of them in a state of mute terror. It had been decided that as their first record they should revive the song Some Other Guy. Johnny was to sing lead, while Jim and Stevie provided the harmonies. For the flip side Colin Day chose the best of the songs which Jim and Stevie had written, You Kept Me Waiting, and although Colin Day was neither impressed nor unimpressed by it, Jim and Stevie were pleased with the arrangement they had prepared. The idea was that on the session Jim should be lead, while Johnny and Stevie sang the chorus. Mike had suggested that Jim should do the whole song by himself, only relying on the other two for simple, laid back harmonies, and Jim did in fact rather fancy the idea, but Johnny was having none of it. If Jim and Stevie were going to do the choruses on his side, then he wanted to be in good evidence on the flip.

  The Stray Cats and Mike had arrived at the studios too early to begin recording, so while they waited, dithering, as a studio hand showed them how to plug in their own equipment, Mike sat in the control room and studied the mass of technical equipment, the rows of switches on the consol, the volume controls for the four tracks on which they recorded, the tape spools and the lights. With so much equipment they could probably make anyone sound like Frank Sinatra, he thought. While he’d been with the Stray Cats he had picked up a rudimentary knowledge of amps and plugs and speakers, but he was never going to be a sound expert. Of that he was sure. As soon as the Stray Cats made it he was going to make sure they hired the very best technicians, just to be certain that they sounded right, because even he could tell that the difference in sound between hall and hall was too marked to be due to their differing performances.

  By the time Colin Day and the studio engineer arrived tagging Harrap behind them the group were ready to begin. After a few preliminary hellos and ‘Best of luck boys’ Colin Day settled into his producer’s chair in the control booth and stared out at the Stray Cats in the studio. Through the soundproof window in the studio Mike could see Jim and Stevie standing nervously by a microphone, while Johnny gnawed anxiously at his chewing gum. Harrap, he noticed now sitting next to him, was visibly wincing with nerves.

  ‘Okay. When you’re ready, boys.’ Colin Day was bringing the meeting to order, calling to the group through his microphone into their headphones. They nodded. Then just as they were about to begin Ronald Harrap hurriedly jumped off his stool.

  ‘Just one last word with the boys, Colin,’ he said, suddenly scuttling through into the studio. Colin Day watched him go with an expression bathed in tedium.

  ‘He’s your main problem, you know, Mike.’ He had said what Mike had been expecting for three weeks now. They both stared through the glass at Harrap anxiously advising the group. Pity the Washerwoman doesn’t have a contract thought Mike. But as he saw Harrap begin to come back towards the control box he moved quickly towards the door, just in time to block his path. Ronald looked at him with surprise.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ said Mike, his arms going round Harrap’s shoulders.

  Some Other Guy was recorded in three takes. Johnny wanted to try it again, but Colin Day said no, he’d got it as good as it was likely to get, so they’d better get on with the other side. From where Jim was standing in the studio he had seen Mike go out with Harrap just as they began recording, but when half an hour later Mike returned, he was alone. Jim couldn’t imagine what Harrap had found more important to do than be at the recording session. It was the only thing the Washerwoman had spoken about all week. He, too, thought that they should be given another chance at the song because he knew Johnny could do better than he had shown, but he was in no position to argue with Colin Day.

  ‘Can we hear it back?’ Johnny was demanding, speaking through his microphone to the figure of Colin Day sitting behind his consol of buttons and lights. The Stray Cats knew that Colin Day, Mike and the engineer had all been listening very carefully to playbacks of the first three takes but for some reason they, the artists, seemed to be excluded from this privilege.

  ‘Better not,’ came Day’s answer over their headphones. ‘It might put you off. Now can we be ready to go on You Kept Me Waiting as soon as possible boys. Studio time costs money, you know.’

  ‘Not that much bloody money,’ shouted Johnny angrily. ‘It’ll only take three bloody minutes.’

  Through their control box window Jim saw Colin Day and Mike talking together, their heads down. Then their faces reappeared.

  ‘Okay Jim … can you try your song as a solo? Stevie, you come in for the end of chorus harmonies. Johnny, I think we can lose you on this one. Alex, you’re on lead.’

  Suddenly Johnny began to look scared: ‘What the hell’s going on? Where’s Harrap?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake don’t blow it now,’ Jim hissed at Johnny. All they needed was for Johnny to throw a tantrum and they’d be out on their ear, and with no record contract.

  ‘Ready to go, Jim?’ Colin Day was there pushing them forward. Jim nodded and counting the group in, went straight into his song.

  Again Colin Day didn’t allow them more than three or four takes, but both Jim and Stevie felt that they had acquitted themselves somewhat better than had Johnny. At the end of the session Colin Day summoned them back into the control booth to hear their playback. It was possibly the most exciting moment in any of their lives. Now for the first time they could get some idea of what they actually sounded like, and although both sides of the record had been recorded in single takes without the benefit of overdubbing and sophisticated electronic gimmickry, the Stray Cats at last had some yardstick by which they could measure their talent alongside that of other groups they had heard only on record. They each listened to the two sides with gaping amazement. Colin Day watched them almost warming to their naiveté.

  ‘Well, boys, that’s what you sound like,’ he smiled down at them. Today he felt in a benevolent mood. The session had been rather better than he had expected.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Mike, truly amazed.

  Jim wondered where Harrap was. There was no sign of him. Johnny was still sulking. Neither the studio hand nor the engineer said anything, showing neither excitement nor distaste. They were completely indifferent. But Colin Day was standing up now, towering over them all, making their plans for them: ‘Well we’ll take a chance on it. Johnny, I’m making your Some Other Guy the A-side, and Jim, your song is the flip. Dayray Music will own the worldwide publishing rights to your song, and you and Stevie will pick up a writers’ royalty, in the unlikely event of the record actually ever making any money. Al
l right?’

  With the exception of Mike everyone nodded an enthusiastic agreement. Mike raised a sceptical eyebrow: ‘Well, we did have plans for our own publishing company,’ he said.

  Colin Day turned on him coolly and dismissively: ‘I suggest you learn to walk before you try to run.’ He paused and looked round at the rest of the group: ‘Agreed then?’

  Johnny, now ebullient with the news that his song was to be the A-side of the record, spoke for all of them: ‘Sure … fantastic. Come on lads. Let’s celebrate. On me tonight.’ Then turning to Mike he sneaked in a quick spiky: ‘Don’t let’s get too greedy now.’

  ‘Don’t let the stars get in your eyes,’ said Mike.

  ‘Where’s Harrap?’ said Jim.

  ‘He went to see a man about a launderette,’ said Mike.

  The Bag O’Nails was a place for the pop world to meet in 1964. So was the Ad Lib, and so also the Moon Beam. Indeed by the spring of that year the new establishment of England’s pop culture was quickly consolidating its position as the new privileged class. And like all the newly privileged, those who suddenly found themselves on the top of the pile after generations of being near the bottom behaved with no less autocracy, and possibly a great deal more, than those for whom privilege had always shone. Indeed, to be a member of that section of society which came into daily contact with the young conquistadors who had taken over fashionable London in the early and mid-sixties was not dissimilar to being a menial at a Borgia court. While the media celebrated the kind of democracy which could allow back street lads to influence by music the minds of millions, and while business applauded the structure which still enabled man to become self-made overnight, the newly privileged gave new credence to the tenet that power corrupts all around it. But for the new men involved it was a most wonderful experience: money, earned with an ease out of all proportion to work or talent, could buy anything, and no nouveau riche mill-owner ever displayed the symptoms of the conspicuous consumption syndrome more than our nouveau popinjays. Wherever they went they were guarded and protected by heavies; liveried chauffeurs drove them when they were too drunk or too drugged to see the road; and groupies made public worship of their private parts. And still the media smiled on them and interview-columnists grovelled to talk with them, test their opinions and not dare argue with their nonsense. And wherever they went a retinue was sure to follow; an in-following, a flowing veil of grinning, applauding faces, thanking them for their very existence, for the way in which they had overthrown the old order, for merely being successes. Oh, but they were lucky men.