staff will not:
speak to any member of the band
make eye contact with any member of the band
approach to shake hands or greet any member of the band
request autographs
take photographs
make any kind of video or audio recording of the band
attempt to retrieve hand or fingerprints from any surface
collect as keepsakes or mementos any object handled by the band
invoke or provoke a response from any member of the band
stand within eight feet of any member of the band
On a wall near a watercooler one of the photocopied memos had an additional entry handwritten at the bottom: 'in other words all staff should fuck off out of here when they arrive.' Todd Moonaj saw it, considered taking it down, but then thought his actions might be seen as heavy-handedness, censorship, just what the band would want. Trouble.
The executive meeting with the band was to be held in a long wood panelled room on a floor with all window blinds closed. No amount of sunlight, however small, was allowed into the building as per the band's request. Moonaj had been happy to go along with the rider, well maybe happy wasn't quite the right word. "Whatever the assholes want, let them have it and get them on a plane back to Europeland," were his exact words. He occasionally stumbled across articles about Mariah Carey or Axl Rose and thanked every Abrahamic god there was he didn't have to deal with people like that. Evidently his luck had run out.
"How long will it be, Todd, before you accept the music industry is like this?" said Mike Tindall, proposed Toten Herzen Finance Director.
"Mike, I accept that traffic congestion in New York is shit, but that doesn't mean I have to like it."
"They're here. . . !" A receptionist burst into the room. Moonaj deliberately hid his reaction by adjusting the angle of the back of his chair. The rest of his 'team,' hastily put together and open to restructuring should events take a certain unforeseen twist, took their positions along one side of the table. An executive silence greeted the visitors as Rob Wallet walked in and said hello. He looked for the most appropriate chair to sit on as the rest of the band appeared one by one behind him. All four of them were smartly dressed, as rock bands go, no outward signs of substance abuse unless painting your face white could be classified as such. One male, three females, possibly two, Moonaj wasn't sure about the one in the white jacket with red spikes in her head like an exotic fruit. Of course they were all surgically attached to their smartphones and tapped them as they sat down. No hellos, no eye contact, no admission of existence. There were no stories about the building being haunted, but then who would be the ghosts in here? Finally, finally one of them looked up. The tall one with the longest matt black hair like she'd been colouring it with the ashes from a crematorium nodded to Wallet.
"Ready? Do we need introductions?" asked Wallet.
"I think that would be the polite thing to do," replied Moonaj, loosening his tie. He spoke to the receptionist who was still waiting for an instruction. "Sharon can you pour some drinks for us please. I'm sorry we don't have any blood, but there is coffee."
"We're fine thanks," said Wallet. Drinks were served, but none were drunk.
Moonaj exhaled and blinked rapidly. "I'll go round the table, shall I? To my left here is Mike Tindall." The large geometric man in the tailored white shirt and silver tie smiled at the band, but quickly withdrew it when the void of four faceless expressions looked up at him. "He will handle your finances, expenses, receipts, recording costs, tour costs and any other expenses you may incur which I'm sure will be substantial. He has the enviable task of monetizing you for all you're worth."
Dee's eyebrows raised and she tapped her phone. Rene looked at her suspiciously and copied her actions.
Moonaj tried to continue. "Next to Mike is Bob Tazares, your tour manager. When we eventually get round to such things and from what I'm told there's already a clamour out in the blogosphere and Twittersphere and social mediasphere." Wallet, Susan and Rene responded with a flurry of taps on their phones. Were these bastards listening? "Bob has twenty seven years experience working with some of the biggest names in music, so bear it in mind he's seen everything there is to see. Throw it at him, everything you've got." He also had a receding hairline and bags under his eyes like two hammocks.
"I'm unshockable," Bob said. He'd need to be. There was no response from the band.
"Linda Macvie will be your marketing manager," Moonaj continued semi-patiently. "I know Toten Herzen is already a pretty strong brand with exploitation opportunities," tap tap! "and widely recognised, but Linda will guide you through the twenty first century and what a modern audience expects and demands. She'll explain the big reach strategy later." Macvie was a mirror image of the woman sat opposite her by tapping on her phone and scrolling through her ever expanding list of messages. On second thoughts maybe Susan Bekker was making notes. For the next few minutes Moonaj was prepared to give the band the benefit of the doubt and speak a little slower so that they could get it all down. Or he could fuck off for a late lunch now and leave the others to it. He didn't need to be here. Didn't want to be here. "On my right are probably two of the most important members of the team," he said sarcastically.
"Shock, I don't believe it," said one of the two most important members of the team, holding up his empty Starbucks cup. "Songwriter is given credit by record label executive screams New York Times headline."
"Torque Rez and Mike Flambor will be your songwriting production team. You will work with them on all new material and remastered material. You can continue to write your own songs, but Sony will not release them and you will not release them independently. All work comes through Torque and Mike, so welcome them into the team. Yours will be a collaborative arrangement and you'll be making use of their familiarity with multi-format platforms and proprietary ecosystems." There was a collective gasp and a spike of activity with the phones. Moonaj paused a moment, but the table was too wide to allow him to see what they were up to.
"To their right is Bill Brandt, your legal manager. He'll deal with contracts, deals, all the boring stuff. . . ."
"Naming rights, legal issues affecting territories other than the US and Europe, including Russia." Rene smiled at the little man in the big jacket, who was also given an inexplicable acknowledgement by Wallet.
"And getting you out of jail," said Moonaj finally. "At the end of the table, Tom Scavinio is your manager. He will be your first point of contact on a day to day basis. After this meeting you'll have no more dealings with me. Everything goes through Tom."
Susan transferred her attention from her phone to her new manager. Scavinio was half a man, a remnant of what he'd once been. He wore a suit like a bad thought and was the only one leaning forward at the table with his chin resting on his fist, pushing his mouth upwards until it was almost underneath the tip of his nose. He had a permanent disinterested scowl. His hair was the only part of him that came close to any sense of animation, statically electrified and grey, like an old mobster or a cartoon drawing. He could have been asleep with his eyes open, but Moonaj knew he was fully alert on the inside. Susan may have imperceptibly adjusted her body angle towards Scavinio and they occasionally, briefly exchanged mutual observations.
"You'll see a lot of Torque and Mike and Linda," said Moonaj, "but Tom will pretty much be with you everyday from now on." He sat back, arms outstretched. Job done. "And that's pretty much it. I'm told by people I trust that you have potential and I have a duty to exploit that. But please do me a favour and just now and again drop the masks and behave like rational human beings, which I'm sure you are. It will make life so much easier for everyone."
There was an awkward pause before Wallet felt the need to respond. "We just want to make music. Everything else is outside our control. Whatever you read or hear about, it's all media driven exaggeration and ninety nine percent of the time not of our making."
"Not of your making?
Are you taking the piss?" said Moonaj.
Susan Bekker moved noticeably for the first time. She took a folded sheet of paper out of her back pocket and read from it. "Staff will not speak to any member of the band, make eye contact with any member of the band, approach to shake hands or greet any member of the band, request autographs, take photographs, make any kind of video or audio recording of the band, attempt to retrieve hand or fingerprints from any surface, collect as keepsakes or mementos any object handled by the band, invoke or provoke a response from any member of the band, stand within eight feet of any member of the band." She threw the paper at Moonaj. "Are we fucking infected with something?"
"We wanted to save you the embarrassment. . . ."
"You have the fucking gall to accuse us of excess and you're circulating things like this. Well let me introduce you to our side of the table. To my left is Elaine Daley, she plays bass guitar. Dee Vincent is our vocalist and plays rhythm guitar. Rene van Voors is our drummer and comes from Rotterdam like me, Susan Bekker, lead guitarist. You guys can sit there feeling as self-important as you like, but just remember without people like us, you'd probably be working on Wall Street and you know what people think about bankers. We make you guys look respectable, so don't hate us."
"We don't hate you," said Bill Brandt offering the palms of his small hands. "This is purely a business agreement, Miss Bekker, it's a contract and if you break the terms of that contract we will seek redress. But we don't hate you."
Wallet was signalling to Brandt to calm down. "We've had contracts before, we know the score. All Susan is trying to say is that we have a way of doing things which works, don't disrupt that or else you'll end up with a different band to the one you think you're signing."
"A way of doing things that works?" said Moonaj. "Hasn't worked for the last thirty five years if you ask me. When did you last release an album? 1976?"
"What's your market position?" asked Macvie. The band simultaneously looked at their phones as if her voice was coming out of them. "Amongst all the hard rock acts who are out there, why should anyone listen to you and not one of the others? Why you and not Metallica or Slipknot, Rammstein, ACDC."
"I thought the job of marketing was to find that out," said Susan. "Earn your money and tell us."
"No, that's your responsibility. Instead of drinking a lot and staying out late you have to speak to people, establish a relationship that creates a consolidated fanbase," tap tap, "what you're known for doesn't impress a generation who didn't bat an eyelid at wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. It's all about respect, making people feel as if you really are there at the other end of that Twitter stream or replying on Facebook. You can't act like gods these days. You have to be part of their circle not giving them permission to access yours." She started fiddling with her own phone to bring up pictures of the band's old record sleeves. She held up an image of the Dead Hearts Live artwork. "Stuff like this is a dime a dozen. You can see real gore on a million websites these days."
Wallet was clicking his fingers. "We had nothing to do with that."
Macvie smirked. "It has your name on it, sweetheart. Look, I'm saying all this for your benefit. You're coming back after thirty five years. How will you feel when you go out there for the first time and no one stops to look, no one stops to listen, everyone passes on by and tuts, 'yeah seen it done that.' I'm trying to make sure that the Onion doesn't give you the Marilyn Manson treatment."
"So what do you suggest?" Wallet asked. "Do we have to guess are or you going to feed us clues. Why don't we build up a large art collection or relocate to a tax haven. We could get really close to our fans by suing the arses off them for the occasional illegal download. Or maybe just sign over the rights to some licensee who can sue them on our behalf then we don't get shit all over our fingers. Worked for Nuclear Blast and Century Media."
"You're being stupid now," said Bill Brandt.
"No, I'm being honest. We build up a large fan base and then distract them while you lot mug them from behind."
Susan grinned.
"Let's arrange another meeting sometime to discuss this properly," said Macvie. "Drop the old Munsters routine and bring you up to date."
"Munsters?" said Dee. She turned to Elaine. "I told you those Russian plastic surgeons didn't know what they were doing."
"We'll have that meeting, Linda" said Susan. "I think we should make it a priority. It's important for you to get the know who we really are."
"I'll give Tom the details of my diary after the meeting," said Macvie.
"And what about you two? Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee." Susan was casually waving her phone like she was waiting for someone to ring her back. Making small talk to pass the time.
"We're ready," said Torque Rez. "We spoke to Jan in Berlin about what not to do. Would have been nice to speak to Martin Lundqvist, but you know."
"All went a bit Beethoven for him, didn't it," said Dee.
"That's one way of describing it, I guess," said Torque sharing Bill Brandt's evident disgust. Moonaj was solidifying with boredom.
"Let's not run before we can walk," said Mike Flambor. "Why don't we just get together, book some space somewhere, crack open a few beers and just play some music. Keep it real, you know, a little bit unplugged," Rene and Susan got a shock off their phones. Flambor waited for them to deal with the cause.
"Sorry, did you say unplugged?" said Susan.
"Yeah, just see how we all get on. Hang out for a while, go places. I know you weren't happy with the song Jan arranged for you."
"On our behalf," Wallet corrected.
"But one friend to another," Flambor continued, "your music is the rock equivalent of Gregorian chant. And you look more like a group of hairdressers than a dangerous rock band. But," he held up his Starbucks cup again, "that's Linda's problem not ours. Trust us and we'll make sure you don't get bottled off when you support Uriah Heap next time they play Carnegie Hall."
"Okay children," Moonaj stood up as Torque Rez walloped Flambor's ankle under the table. "this is where I go back to the real world and leave you babies to throw things at each other. I think everyone wearing a suit and tie is done here."
But Mike Tindall wasn't done here. Moonaj remained on his feet to keep his colleague brief. "Can I just add something," Tindall said examining a document in his leather folder. "Our investment is underwritten and we'll need a medical examination from all of you as part of the insurance conditions. Tom can I leave that for you to arrange?"
"Yeah, sure." Scavinio was making to leave too.
"Medical examination?" said Wallet.
"Yes. If one of you drops dead from a medical condition you already knew about we lose a significant sum of money from lost revenues and we don't want our insurers surprising us with a get out clause."
"We'd be delighted," said Susan. "When would you like us to do that?"
"Leave it with me," said Tom. "I'll fix a date and feed back to you."
As the suits stood up Moonaj couldn't resist one final speech, a farewell gift. "I try to stay out of the more excessive corners of this industry. I am a self confessed rock atheist and pop agnostic so your image and all the terrible historic baggage it comes with is of no interest to me whatsoever. I don't want to see you on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine, I want to see you on the covers of Time and Vogue and Cosmopolitan and GQ and anywhere else there's a market waiting to be razzle dazzled by your particular brand of sound and fury, I want you trending. . . ."
"Bingo," Rene was the first to make the call and his triumph drew a collective groan from his colleagues.
Moonaj was almost out the door when the call stopped him. "What? Bingo, what is that, a Dutch word?"
"We got some tips and advice off your intern in England," said Susan as Dee and Elaine put their phones back into their pockets. Wallet was inspecting Rene's phone and handed it back to the drummer with disappointed resignation. "Bullshit Bingo," said Susan. "And Rene won."
"Goodbye." Todd Moonaj pulled
his jacket on taking several attempts to control an awkward left sleeve. On his way out Bill Brandt attempted to shake hands with the band.
"We don't shake hands, Mr Brandt" said Elaine holding the paper memo in his face. "Haven't you read it? And stop looking at my tits, I'm not Rihanna."
-
Rob Wallet followed Tom Scavinio who was sneakily grinning at Susan as he left the room. The executives' polite retreat to the corridor exploded once outside with a salvo of belches and wall thumping. Bill Brandt described someone as assholes, but as Linda Macvie, Torque Rez and Mike Flambor remained in a huddled whisper at the far end of the table, the target of the little man's bile was unclear. Eventually Wallet came back, still in need of a bathroom now and again obviously, and said quietly to Rene, "I keep thinking his name's Torque Wrench. . . ."
"Sh," said Susan. The band could hear what was being whispered in the other group.
-
"I think there's a huge disparity between the band's music and the image," mumbled Linda Macvie.
"Yeah, I agree," replied Torque Rev.
"They've been sold on the back of all this so called vampire gore and excess, but then you listen to them and it's like psychedelic sixties crap? Where's the energy that matches the image? It's like Lamb of God going on stage and playing the Carpenters. No one gives a shit about their image and the music is straight out of the ark."
"And another problem," whispered Mike Flambor. "The vocalist," The other two agreed. "She's the weak link. Jan knew what he was doing cutting her out of the track. She's just a passenger."
"I was already thinking about that," said Macvie. "Well, how about this. This is just off the top of my head, but I was chewing it over during the meeting. We approach one of the networks with a proposal for the band's next vocalist. X-Factor meets the Human Centipede or something. We have a tv show to pick their new vocalist. It would give us another twelve to eighteen months prime time before the next reinvention."
We Are Toten Herzen (TotenUniverse Book 1) Page 12