We Are Toten Herzen (TotenUniverse Book 1)

by Chris Harrison

RavensWish - @terencepearl2013 your walking into the lions den hope they cut you to shreds

  DM to RavensWish - calm down: Sent by WhiteRotterdam

  DM to TerencePearl2013 - I'll get back to you on that: Sent by TotenHerzen

  Success! Possibly. The exchanges were Pearl's first experience of Twitter and his heart was fluttering from the rapidity of it. Who was RavensWish? Whoever it was, he, she or it, was obviously trained at the Toten Herzen school of etiquette. Typical of today's moronic instantaneous textspeak vulgarity. The silent k an errant coincidence. The task now was to sit and wait for another private message and hopefully further details about a meeting. He wondered who it was behind the TotenHerzen name replying to him. Possibly Susan Bekker, or maybe Rob Wallet. Hopefully not an intern or low paid lackey with no authority to set up meetings. And Slater was still standing, still on his feet, nibbling his ribs as sticky hoi sin sauce dripped off his chin.

  32 (September)

  They all had tablets now. All four of them. Susan, Dee, Elaine even Rene, sat around and paced about regularly glancing at their seven inch tablets (ten inch models were too cumbersome to double as a vanity mirror), checking their hair, mascara, lipstick, as much for novelty as function. They had thirty five years of vanity to catch up with. Thirty five years of making do with trust, guesswork and out of date photos.

  Not anymore. The vampire mirrors were a Walletsend and never more so than now as they waited to go out in front of the press, gathering in the Koningin Beatrix Hotel on the southern outskirts of Rotterdam. Their first encounter with 'food.' On the menu tonight were journalists, bloggers, photographers, cameramen, presenters, reporters, writers, commentators and the curious. Don't forget the curious. It was on both sides: curiousity about what the band would look like, what they had to say, what they were going to announce; curiousity about how they'd react, what the mood would be, what questions they would ask.

  The press pack were on the other side of the double doors separating them from the band sat in in a side room with Scavinio. He wanted to go through the press brief one more time.

  "Back catalogue reissue: midnight October 31st. Special box set of five vinyl LPs - Pass on By, We Are Toten Herzen, Nocturn, Black Rose and DeadHeartsLive. With a booklet of previously unreleased photographs by Lance Beauly. Also included, a bonus disc of interactive collaborations with online vocalists adding music and lyrics to unreleased backing instrumentation."

  "We need something a bit shorter to describe that disc," said Susan.

  "And new cover for We Are Toten," confirmed Dee.

  "Photoshoot is in your diaries," said Scavinio. They all waved their tablets in unison.

  "Okay." Scavinio continued. "Tour dates. Six in total for this year. November 14th, Ahoy Arena, Rotterdam; November 20th, Midlands International Arena, England; November 24th, Allianz Halle, Berlin; November 27th, WienerHalle, Vienna; November 30th, Laszlo Papp Sports Arena, Budapest; December 3rd, SEG Geneva Arena, Switzerland."

  "Pity we couldn't get the tenth for the Ahoy," said Susan.

  "Yeah. Try again in 2017."

  And that was the brief. The kind of brief the band preferred: brief. And off they went again in a mixed state of agitation, expectation and confrontation. Susan stayed close to Scavinio to focus his attention on backing up the band if things got rough in the next hour or so. She wasn't expecting trouble, but she wouldn't rule it out either.

  "If only we were a normal band, Tom, we'd have buckets of coke to keep you awake."

  "Normal. Yeah, I'll stick to coffee thanks. I think there's another hour in me yet."

  He wasn't going to miss this for the world. Toten Herzen, mid twenties if they were a day, walking out in public thirty five years after they walked away. Over sixty years since they were born. Wallet was also looking forward to it. He wanted to see what the cameras would capture, what the microphones would hear, what the reporters would say. No, he wouldn't miss this for a pot of gold the size of Holland. Scavinio had said he wanted a distraction and this was it. The only one in town. The only one worth travelling half way round the world to witness. Wallet's distraction hatched so long ago he'd forgotten how it all started.

  Wallet heard a momentary leakage of noise through the double doors. The sound of trouble, the din of a fight. "They've kicked off again," he said.

  "Are you surprised?" Scavinio replied staying solidly in his chair. "Seventy five people in a room with no windows and as big as a pick up truck."

  Susan didn't look too happy.

  "Stops them from getting complacent and cocky. They've turned on each other instead of turning on you. Trust me, I actually know what I'm doing."

  "So what do you mean they've kicked off again?" said Susan. "What's been going on?"

  Wallet brought her up to date.

  -

  The last stragglers from the inaugural World Angry Birds contest had left earlier that day. By the time the first members of the media were arriving the late timing was showing. I had a wander around as they were gathering in the bar and one or two were up for it, excited, mystified, others seemed a bit, I don't know, somewhere else.

  "It's Rob Wallet," said Alex Roundtree, a fellow freelance music journalist and blogger. She was there on behalf of the Huffington Post. "Looking very pale and withered."

  "It's all this working at night with the band," I said. "Reduces all the vitamin c you get from sunlight."

  "So how's life on the other side?"

  I had to think before answering. Other side? Did she know how many other sides there were these days. "Other side?"

  "Publicist. Dishing out the propaganda instead of having to cut through it?"

  "Oh that. It's good. Yeah. Liberating. Gets a bit boring at times because they're very private. Quite old fashioned really. They don't believe in trying to be everywhere all the time."

  I was spotted by another journalist who knew me from my freelance days before I moved down to London. Charlie Craig was a sub-editor for Csharp, an online music magazine based in Paris. "So who are they really?" he asked standing alongside Alex and me.

  "Wait and see."

  But he continued a subtle probing exercise. Are they in it for the money (no), do they need the money (no), are they the original four (yes), have they calmed down (not a bit), what did you do to persuade them to come back (turned on my usual charm), what happened with the Sony deal (Sony bottled out).

  It was at approximately that moment that someone, possibly the guy from Bild, came in and spoke to everyone in the bar.

  "Have you seen the size of the press room? We won't all get in there."

  I followed Alex to the room to see what some of the others were saying and there was a consensus.

  "It's like a phone booth," said one.

  "Twenty four chairs! There must be sixty of us here already," said another. And the photographers who were setting up were growing tetchy. There was a lot of babble, but two guys, somewhere in the middle, had started arguing over a chair."

  "It's the last one."

  "And I sat on it. It's not my fault if you didn't see me."

  "You weren't sitting on it, you could see me putting my phone on it."

  "That doesn't make it yours, now get the fuck out."

  "Or what? Or you'll do what?"

  "I'll do this."

  They must have been grappling; there wasn't enough room to throw a punch, but others were shouting 'come on, fellas, get a grip'. Then I heard a chair going over, someone must have been sat on it. Other voices were shouting 'watch it,' 'what are you doing,' 'fuck me, this was bound to happen.' There were choking sounds, people yelling, you could hear the chairs being thrown around, banging on the walls, bodies banging against the wall, shrieks. I think it went on for about ten minutes. I heard someone shouting because his tea cup had been kicked away, one woman lost her phone, then a crunch - I think that's when she found it again - then I heard 'for fuck's sake get a doctor.'

  That was the guy from ETV Rotterdam. He was hit by a s
aucer. Oh, the irony. 'Flying saucer spotted at Toten Herzen press conference.' You could see the headlines writing themselves and a picture taken on a mobile phone of Bert Klaussens with blood pouring down his face.

  So they eventually settled themselves down when all the bigger guys had claimed the chairs. Nothing democratic about it. Didn't matter whether you were broadsheet or tabloid, hard copy or digital, television or radio. In the end it came down to body mass index. And then the photographers kicked off. A camera went over and that was the start of the second round when someone was nudged forwards into the back of the cameraman from ETV Rotterdam who tried to stop his tripod from falling over. The assembled photographers had already been tangling for position like a badly organised rugby scrum. As the cameraman tried to catch his camera he fell forward scattering several bodies knelt and squatting at the front.

  Like any scrum that collapses blame was passed around with no one prepared to admit responsibility and within seconds punches were thrown at any face that came within range. Colleagues from the same organisation soon joined in to help their photographer and the whole melee began again and scores settled from the previous round of fighting.

  It only stopped when they were all so physically knotted together they couldn't move. It was like a human bottleneck; no one could move up, down, forwards, backwards, sideways. So I stepped in.

  -

  "I don't want to know this," said Susan.

  "I pulled three of them apart and, yeah, I got some funny looks." Wallet's strong arm tactics convinced everyone to settle down and shut up. "I think Alex Roundtree wants to have my babies now."

  Scavinio cleared his throat. "Well I'd like to see how that turns out. So, are we ready now?"

  The others gathered round. Four hungry looking, uncompromising individuals who were not only ready for round three, were probably looking forward to it. But tonight, Scavinio reminded them, there are no antagonists, no enemies, no threats. Treat them as a partnership; treat them with respect. They have a job to do, bills to pay, some of them will have bosses they'd love to strangle, so make it easy for them - disapproving sideways glance at Wallet - and get them on your side.

  Wallet watched them go and felt something for the first time: respect. He realised that he'd never been this close to a real rock band before. Yes, he'd been with them for seven months, but they were off duty for most of the time. Now they were clocking on and going to work. They looked a foot taller, a stone heavier, the expressions meant business, the mood was diamond tipped. With Scavinio leading them out they were the real deal, not the Keystone Cops that Wallet had been organising or what passed for organisation if it included bad planning, lack of preparation and plain old incompetence. He was pleased for them. Pleased for Susan. He knew what it meant to her. Then they disappeared into the strobing brilliance of the camera flashes.

  -

  Once the band, Scavinio and Wallet were sat behind a long low table the press were formally welcomed. Scavinio apologised for the room and claimed it was out of his control. Questions would come later, but first details of the tour dates and the back catalogue box set. When the cameras stopped and all notes had been scribbled he opened the floor to questions. The reaction was an unexpected heavy silence. Then the first question was lobbed in like a flying boulder.

  Q

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  Susan Bekker

  "I'm Susan Bekker and we are Toten Herzen."

  Q

  "You're supposed to be in your sixties. Where is the real band?"

  SB

  "We are the real band."

  Q

  "How can you be the real band?"

  Dee Vincent

  "Because we are. If you don't like it reception will ring for a taxi for you."

  Q

  "Wait, wait. The real band formed in 1973. You are not Toten Herzen."

  Q

  "Come on Rob, what's going on?"

  Rob Wallet

  "You wanted to meet the band and here they are."

  Q

  "Is this a hoax?"

  RW

  "No."

  Q

  "Can you explain your appearance"

  SB

  "In what way?"

  Q

  "Why four sixty year olds look as young as you do?"

  SB

  "We can't say. If Micky Redwall was here he might know, but he isn't."

  Q

  "Are you a tribute band? Are you lookalikes? What?"

  SB

  "We are who we say we are. We're not imposters. This isn't a trick."

  Q

  "But you can't be the real band."

  SB

  "We're not robots if that's what you're suggesting."

  Q

  "Susan Bekker, how old are you?"

  SB

  "That's a very impolite question. You're not supposed to ask a woman her age."

  Q

  "Rene van Voors, how old are you?"

  Rene van Voors

  "You're being sexist now. Just because I'm a man doesn't mean you can ask me my age."

  Wallet could see chins being scratched and hands paused above notebooks. The camera flashes and motor winds were still interrupting, but at a decreasing frequency as the mental fog began to drop on the crowd.

  Q

  "Tom Scavinio, can you explain any of this?

  Tom Scavinio

  "Nope. I gave up asking questions like that months ago."

  Q

  "Tom Scavinio, is it true Sony rejected the deal after getting the band's medical reports?"

  TS

  "No. That is not true. It was the bad publicity following the murders in New York."

  Q

  "And none of that worries you?"

  TS

  "No. I know the band better than most people. There are things that are still a mystery to me, but there are some things we're not meant to understand."

  "Q

  "What do you mean some things we're not meant to understand?"

  TS

  "Some people are different. Some people age better than others. I don't know how they do it, but they do. It's beyond me."

  DV

  "The tour bus won't be a spaceship either."

  Wallet detected three different facial expressions within the pack. Those looking at him, wondering what half baked scam he'd created and how he expected to get away with it; those aimed at Scavinio, wondering why a respected artist manager had defected across to join in with all this hocus pocus; and those warily scanning the band like they were the result of a particularly baffling magic trick with four people sawn in half and put back together again forty years younger. He wanted to smile, but figured maybe now wasn't the right time.

  Q

  "Can you tell us anything about Alien Noise Corporation?"

  TS

  "It's a company made up of investors and will include the band's label, publisher, tour management, legal representation and so on."

  Q

  "Does the band own Alien Noise Corporation?"

  SB

  "Yes and no. It's a complicated arrangement. You don't really need to know the details."

  Q

  "Where’s the money coming from?"

  SB

  "The band and private investment."

  Q

  "Why are you only releasing the back catalogue on vinyl?"

  RvV

  "Because we're an old fashioned band. And you have to listen to a vinyl record. You can't go jogging with a record player strapped to you."

  Q

  "You could make a tape."

  RvV

  "Good for you. We like people who show initiative."

  SB

  "It also means we have better control over the sale of our music. With downloads there are too many retail companies we don't like. They're taking a cut for essentially doing nothing. CDs are all very well, but they're like the sickly siblings of vinyl with their tiny little booklets and
fragile cases. We were told CDs are better sounding, indestructible and we were lied to on both counts. With download files territorial restrictions and copyright restrictions are used as an excuse to get more money out of fans for nothing in return. It's disrespectful. I'm not saying we'll never issue music digitally, but it will never be a replacement."

  Q

  "Aren't you making this difficult for your fans?"

  SB

  "No. If they really care about the music they'll understand why we're doing this. It's a totally better package. I know it's convenient having everything made smaller, but we're not interior designers, we couldn't give a fuck how much storage space you haven't got. The music comes first."

  TS

  "The thing to consider here is that the band are making decisions here instead of a corporate boardroom who place the music fans last in a long list of interested parties. The band are trying to reverse that pattern. Trust them. They know what they're doing."

  Q

  "Who do you think your fans will be? What age do you think they'll be?"

  SB

  "A wide range, we think. People listening to us for the first time. People, if they're still alive, who remember us from the first time round."

  One or two were shaking their heads. Realisation, when it came, whatever form it took, would spread like a contagious disease especially in such a small room, but Wallet saw no sign of it yet. There was a reluctance to ask all the normal questions when such a fundamental one went unanswered. Couldn't be answered. What was the explanation? Detox, aggressive skin peeling, radical plastic surgery, cloning, black magic, a time machine parked round the back.

  Hoax. Had to be a hoax. A bloody good one too!

  Q

  "Will you repeat the behaviour of the band in the seventies?"

  TS

  "There'll be nothing like that. No. A lot of it was fabricated, publicity stunts beyond the band's control. That won't happen again. We have no control over what the fans might do though. Especially the equestrian community!"