Torque Rez nodded.
"It wouldn't be impossible to engineer a split. Wouldn't be the first time. Maybe pull the Dutch away from the Brits. The fault line's already there. Two bands pulled together to make one. There's always guilt hanging round in the background when that happens. If we can pick out that guilt and build on that, you can split them up again."
Flambor breathed in deeply. "Strip them down and then rebuild it from the bottom up."
Macvie agreed. "Bekker and Daley, definitely, maybe the drummer, but the vocalist has to go."
-
Back at the dead end of the room the band listened without acknowledgement. The two clusters eventually met and exchanged smiles of varying intent. "Let us know when you're ready for that discussion, Linda. See if we can tease out the essence of Toten Herzen."
"Then we can bottle it and sell it like all the other whores do," said Dee.
"I'll be in touch. Next twenty four hours." And with that Linda Macvie was off, arranging her scarves and juggling all the hand held gadgets. Torque Rez and Mike Flambor made their excuses and followed her. Rob Wallet carefully drew back one of the window blinds.
"Hurry up," he shouted. "Sun's going down."
"And I should be joining them." Tom Scavinio rolled into the room like tumbleweed, overcoat on, small rucksack over his shoulder and studied the band who were now sitting all alone like abandoned children.
"They left us all alone, Mr Tom," said Susan.
"A word of advice." Scavinio sat on the edge of the table alongside them. "Mike is just doing his job and doesn't care about you guys one way or another, but the others. They see you as a lump of modelling clay and they're gonna try to mould you to suit their own needs, not yours. Don't let all the dismissive bullshit fool you. They've all been up all night jerking off at the thought of being in charge of Toten Herzen. Let them ride it for a little while, let them have their fifteen minutes and then do whatever you do. Trust me, you'll enjoy it more."
"Thanks for the advice," said Susan. "And what were you doing all night last night?"
"I was taking care of my wife."
"What's that a euphemism for, Mr Tom?" said Dee.
"She's dying of cancer. I like to be with her as much as I can these days." The silence left him uncomfortable and he tried to reverse what he'd said. "Looks like I'm showing you out of the building."
"Well you are our manager, now," said Rene.
"What prize did you win?" asked Scavinio as he led the way.
"I don't know. What prize have I won?" asked Rene.
"Linda Macvie's head mounted on a silver plate," said Dee.
"Don't let them get to you," said Scavinio. "That's what they want. There's no other way of controlling you other than provoking a reaction."
The weary group arrived at the elevator doors. "On a scale of one to ten," said Susan, "how much influence do we have over what happens?"
"One to ten?" said Scavinio pressing the button. "This scale doesn't start at the ground floor. It's ten levels under the basement and you have to be pretty forceful to get on that scale in the first place." He turned and leaned back against the wall. "Two things. You, along with every other artist signing to a major label for the first time, you don't have any say in anything. And secondly, I know that you guys are not going to get anywhere near a contract with Sony."
"What makes you say that?" asked Elaine.
"You haven't come here to sign a contract." Scavinio was smiling. Fuck, this man was cleverer than he looked. "Call it a hunch. Now are you flying back to your hotel or do you ride elevators?"
"We'll come down with you," said Susan with a broad smile.
Scavinio stepped inside the elevator. "When we get to the ground floor will I still be alive?"
"You ask a lot of questions there, Mr Tom," said Dee and the elevator doors closed with a rattle and a crunch.
Financial Times
Sony's Deal With Toten Herzen Could Be a Welcome Boost to Dwindling Coffers
Signatures haven't been signed in blood, not yet at least, but when they are Sony's latest addition to its catalogue could be more lucrative than they think. The clamour to see what Toten Herzen look like after thirty five years, along with existing titles ready for remastering and re-release in digital format means that Sony have a lot of work already done for them even before a deal is signed.
Davinia Trench, International Media Analyst at Speakman Venture Fund says the deal could be worth as much as twenty million dollars a year to Sony before they even begin to spend money on new material. "There will be a clamour of sponsorship opportunities with companies lining up to associate their brands with a familiar name. People of one generation, brought up in the seventies, will buy into the 'nostalgia fix,' whilst a younger audience, constantly looking for new material will buy into the granddad horror which they won't have experienced before."
Taking a leaf out of EMI and Apple Corps, the Beatles back catalogue was remastered and released in CD format in 2009, digital format on iTunes in 2010, followed by the whole lot reissued a second time in vinyl, individually and as a sixteen album box set. "Toten Herzen don't have the following or the amount of material that the Beatles had, but the example has already been set. There is a precedent for multiple reissues of an old band's recordings."
But Whilst EMI came good with the Beatles, they will also remember their less than successful dalliance with another 'notorious' rock band the Sex Pistols. "I'm sure Sony are too sophisticated to make the same mistake. The music industry's core values and business aspirations have moved on from the late seventies. Due diligence as a business concept probably didn't exist when EMI signed the Sex Pistols. Sony will not allow any kind of unauthorised behaviour to take place when so much is at stake."
Sony's share price was unaffected by the announcement, remaining at 1,442.50.
RavensWish@TotenHerzen are signing a deal #yippeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (is that 140 caracters yet) #yipeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
20 (June)
One of the advantages of working with Toten Herzen, according to Mike Flambor, was that you only got to work at night, which left the rest of the day free to do what you wanted and in Flambor's case that meant shopping. One of the disadvantages, according to Torque Rez, was that you only got to work at night, which meant he couldn't go out and get laid. Flambor and Torque continued their disagreement outside Randolph's Sushi on 8th Avenue and strode round onto West 21st heading for Minty Studios. "You don't believe me; check out this shirt, asshole," Flambor said.
"Good camouflage," said Torque comparing the pattern to the tree canopies threatening to burst out of their streetlit urban confinement. "What happened, they sell out of Paisley?"
"Paisley's good," said Flambor. "Not as good as this." He examined his sleeves again. "Felicity Garnier, man. Handmade. So new it still hasn't appeared on the catwalk."
"You know we've been asked to work with an old name."
"Yep. Call it the heritage line. It's like repainting a castle."
"They have castles in Holland?" said Torque, his tongue struggling to extract a fish flake from a rear molar. "I think Randolph's sea bass is a little on the obese side these days."
"Hasn't been the same since he fired his cousin. Mind you, the guy had worse dress sense than you."
"I spoke to Todd's predecessor three months ago and he convinced me that something was gonna happen this summer and I was like hoping we'd be discovering the new Skrillex." Torque stood back as two men came out of a house with a sofa. "You see, that's us," he said as the plump struggling piece of furniture was loaded into a truck. "Carrying weight, man. Carrying weight."
"Nah, build it from the bottom up, like we said. If we can pull this off we'll be treated like gods." Flambor laughed, even he didn't believe what he was saying.
Minty Studio was a red brick wedge, jostled by two stone guardians at each side of it. With a grey fire escape hanging over the double doored entrance it looked more like a dispatch
centre than a place of music, of art, of creativity in the constriction of New York's heaving asthmatic streets. "We are going to turn the Brady Bunch's boring older relatives into the new new kids on the block, without the annoying chin rashes of the originals." Flambor allowed his colleague to enter first.
"I hope this isn't gonna go on for too long," said Torque as he yanked the door open. "Remember this was your idea; meet up, hang out, have a few beers," he mocked, straightening his imaginary tie, "maybe we can all be buddies and shit."
Inside, the reception area was clear; the cleaning staff only came in before ten a.m. and the only sign of life was the glow of the telephones' lcd screens. Flambor switched on the lights. A click followed by the buzz of the tubes as they sputtered into life. "What's so good about a Felicity Garnier shirt anyway?" asked Torque.
"Oh, Jesus. I bet you ask that question everywhere." They headed further into the building, automated lights glowing as they moved down the short corridor to Studio Two. "What's so special about this Michaelangelo, what's so special about this Ming vase, what's so special about Naomi Watts."
The control room of Studio Two was a lifeless windowless hole. Nothing more than a broom cupboard until the equipment was switched on, the producers settled into their high backed chairs and the artists cued up their throbbing, premature sense of glory. "What time do you think they'll show?" Flambor's voice drifted in the gloom as he identified the silhouettes and shadows.
"No idea. If they show up at all. I've got mixed feelings about this lot. They obviously don't like us. All that Bullshit Bingo."
"I actually thought that was quite funny," said Flambor suddenly illuminated.
"You think Adam Sandler's funny. You laugh at your own stools," said Torque. On the mixing desk was a sports bag with an A4 sheet of paper on top of it. "What the fuck is this? They let Curtis Painter in here?"
"Maybe I could persuade young Susan to see things the right way," said Flambor.
"You wish. Isn't she supposed to be old enough to be your grandmother?" Torque was unzipping the bag. "Looked pretty slim for a sixty year old. You know what they always say: you can tell you're getting older when the rock dinosaurs start looking younger."
"I'd fuck her anyway. I'm not as fussy as people say I am." Flambor picked up the note to read it. "Make sure you get the levels right. . . ."
"Oh, Jesus. . . ." Torque dropped the bag. A teenage boy's head rolled out of it. Flambor laughed.
"Woh, they caught you with that one, partner." Flambor picked up the head and stared at it. "Wonder where the hell they got it. Wouldn't surprise me if they stole it." He rolled it around, studying the details of it: the partially closed eyes, gasping mouth, congealed blood around the severed end of the neck. "That's . . . pretty fucking realistic, isn't it? You know you need a sort of warped patience to create something like this." Every hair looked human from the number four head trim to the boyish whiskers.
Flambor was still holding the A4 sheet and fiddling with a remote control to the studio television screen. A further instruction was to watch Channel 599 to see the breaking news. Both men stood and watched as scrolling banners provided lurid details of the murder of fifteen year old Anthony Rawls, a high school dropout from Boston. The boy's picture matched the head that Flambor was still holding. He could feel his sushi coming back up.
"911," said Torque. Flambor vomited. "Call the police. We can't sit here with this."
"You'll have to be quick." A voice from inside the live room echoed through the studio monitors. Torque Rez could see Susan Bekker's form on the other side of the glass. Before he could blink she was stood next to him, the rest of the band behind her.
"You still want to fuck me?" said Susan, stroking a lock of hair off the back of Flambor's ear. But there wasn't time to answer.
-
For the second time in as many months Todd Moonaj was woken up by a phone call concerning Toten Herzen. "They're the vampires," he said to his dozing wife, "but we're all expected to be up all night." He picked up the phone. "Yes, yes, yes."
"I'm sorry to ring you so late, Todd. It's Tom. Er. . . ."
"Get to the point."
"Okay. Mike and Torque are dead. The head of the boy murdered in Boston earlier this evening was in the recording studio next to them."
Tom Scavinio got to the point a little too quickly for Moonaj who was now dumbstruck. "Tell me this is a publicity stunt."
"It's not a publicity stunt, Todd."
"What happened?"
"Police aren't saying much, but they think there's a connection."
"They were supposed to be meeting the band tonight. Where's the band? Are they okay?"
"No sign of the band. It's all a little confusing. Police won't say how Mike and Torque died so we don't know if the killer or killers cut their heads off too."
"No sign of the band. Get in touch with Rob Wallet. He'll know, won't he?"
"I've tried him a couple of times, but keep getting his voice mail. I thought you should know, Todd. I didn't want you waking up in the morning and being greeted with a night of speculation like this."
"Just find the band, Tom. Find the band. Waking up in the morning! You think I'm going back to sleep after this. What are you, nuts?"
-
Tom Scavinio hung up. He was taking one of his evening strolls when he took the call telling him of the murders. His nightly ritual of slipping out of the apartment as his wife slept allowed him to experience a world that didn't care. It was a welcome environment where no one asked how are you keeping, how's Sheila, gee, Tom I feel your pain, which nobody did or could. Instead, New York's indifference and the unknowing faces on total strangers was a relief from the well intentioned hand on the shoulder and awkward nod of sympathy. Here, at night, Scavinio could wander and wallow, let his mind empty and release all those dead end questions that would build up during the day.
Along Columbus Avenue his routine took him past the familiar store where he opened a guitar shop in 1981. He survived for twelve years before the chains invaded and he was forced to move on in life. The shop was a sandwich bar now. Everybody eats, these days, he thought to himself as he studied the diners chewing and swallowing, unable to talk, unwilling to talk. And his new life, managing local bands who had come into his shop for advice, encouragement and occasionally, a guitar, had been consumed by another invading giant when he was taken on by one record label that was devoured by a larger label, itself ending up in the belly of an even bigger predator. Every time the company grew bigger, Scavinio's status and respect diminished until he was working for some distant unknowable entity; a corporate metaphysical state. His final challenge was the cruellest; watching his wife being consumed, not by some ravenous external force, but by her own body; her own genetics. A month or so after her diagnosis Scavinio had half listened to the consultant explaining the role of certain enzymes. At the time the technicalities were of no help or comfort, no more than the usual hand on shoulder or awkward nod, but the words were coming back to him now with increasing lucidity. This enzyme, not enough of it and you die, too much of it and you die, but get the amount just right, and nobody has yet, and you'll live forever.
Scavinio found a bar with a television running the news. Everyone was now hearing the name Toten Herzen for the first time, albeit by association. Scavinio hit his second double malt, rolling the tumbler between his hands and allowing himself the sneaky warmth of respect for the band. They were fighting back. They had walked into the belly of the predator and were now eating their way out from the inside. Rob Wallet's face appeared on the screen, apparently talking from a hotel lobby. "Can you turn this up?" asked Scavinio.
Rob Wallet - Toten Herzen Spokesman
". . . This kind of thing seems to follow us around. And it's like history repeating itself. We're just grateful the band weren't in the studio at the time otherwise this could have been an even bigger tragedy. We only met the guys once, er . . . what can I say? They seemed okay. . . ."
Cheryl Tovey - CNN New York Correspondent
"Where are the band now? How are they reacting to the news?"
RW
"They're in the hotel. They're sort of trying to calm down. You know it's been a long night for them."
CT
"Have the police spoke to them yet?"
RW
"Only to break the news to them."
CT
"Do you know why anyone would want to do this?"
RW
"Is it really a choice thing? Only a monster could do something like this."
As Rob turned to leave his expression to the camera struck a nerve deep in Tom Scavinio's mind as if Wallet had noticed him through the CNN camera, perched on his bar stool. It was the briefest raising of the eyebrow, a knowing look, a momentary slip that told Scavinio there was no sympathy, no empathy, no regret; you might have guessed we'd put up a fight, but not with this level of severity. Flambor, Torque Rez and the kid from Boston were in the wrong place at the wrong time and had become the latest victims of local history. He finished his drink and took a cab over to the band's hotel.
-
"Tom!" Wallet looked surprised to see the band's manager stood in the hallway of the Belle Air Hotel. He stood like a detective; he had a suspicious look on his face.
"I tried to get through to you on the phone. How are the band?"
"The band's fine."
"Are they here?"
"Yes. Do you want to come in?"
"Well, Rob, seeing as I've been given the unenviable task of managing them it might be useful to just check they're all okay."
We Are Toten Herzen (TotenUniverse Book 1) Page 13