The following day I had interviews with People TV in the States and CTV News in Canada. Both were live. By now any nerves I’d had about speaking on live TV had gone. It was a ginormous shift for me. Before I would have been terrified at the thought of speaking in front of people in a small meeting at work, and now I didn’t blink at the idea of talking to people across the globe. To be honest, it felt like I had recovered all the confidence I’d lost when I was around 15. I just didn’t care any more; it was Dad’s last chance.
That evening I went to breathwork meditation. Because I’d been so down in the past year, a friend, David, told me I should try it. I’d never done anything like it before, and I was a bit wary, but I needed something to keep me sane. After my first one-to-one session I was completely sold and I started going to group sessions too. It would drag up memories from years earlier in what I can only liken to an out-of-body experience. It might sound ridiculous, but that evening I felt I was taken to a different plane of consciousness. Our dog Mac came and sat beside me in the room and it was like he’d come to say that everything would be OK. My lips began trembling and I could feel myself starting to go.
I carried on breathing and my mind drifted to Grandad’s funeral. I was 24 again and sitting in his armchair in the house he shared with Gladys, reliving the moment I was sat waiting for his coffin to arrive. I was thinking about how I ran upstairs to the bathroom, so the others wouldn’t see me cry. The next thing I knew, memories that I hadn’t recalled for years were being replayed as if I was actually there. There were Christmases in Cedar Street when I was a kid with Nan and Grandad. The day the house got flooded and all the carpets were taken out on to the street. The arguments between Mum and Dad. Mum sat sobbing on the floor. Dad going out singing and taking his speakers with him. Being taken to Blackpool with Dad and Mum not being there. Being sat in the back of the car with Grandad crying after he was told Nan had three months to live. Everything was replayed like a movie.
I told the group what had happened, and felt a huge burden lifting. It was as though all these feelings that had been building up for years had suddenly been released – which was just as well, as things were getting crazy.
I travelled up to Blackburn to see Mum and Dad; they were just getting on with their everyday lives, sheltered from what was going on. But the interest had travelled and I needed to explain to Mum that this was now a big story.
Their Internet wasn’t working properly, which was probably a blessing. They would still get the bus into town on a Thursday to go shopping and have lunch at Muffins Cafe in Blackburn town centre. The waitress there – Liz – always made a fuss of Mum and Dad and she knew how to deal with Dad’s condition. It was crazy to think that my parents were in their own little world while, internationally, people were going crazy for the videos of Dad singing.
On the Saturday night, I went with Mum and Dad to St Stephen’s Club. When Dad got up to sing the compère gave a small speech about how he had raised nearly £100,000 for the Alzheimer’s Society. As soon as he mentioned the word ‘Alzheimer’s’ I cringed and signalled to him not to mention it. I was so worried about how Dad would react. He was in total denial about his illness and any talk of it would usually send him into meltdown. Luckily, he was so focused on getting up to sing he missed it. The whole room applauded him and he went on to sing ‘Quando, Quando, Quando’, the star of the night.
On Sunday, I checked the JustGiving page: £100,000.
Amazing!
Mum started crying in the back of the car. Dad had no concept of what we’d done or how much money had been raised. ‘Why’s she crying? Linda, what’s a matter?’
‘I’m fine. It’s just so amazing,’ Mum said and wiped her tears with a tissue.
When I returned to London that night, I had another surreal moment. A train had just pulled in and people were walking through the underpass towards me. All of a sudden a guy in his mid-twenties stopped me. ‘Oi, mate,’ he says, ‘are you that guy who sings with his dad?’
I’d never been recognized before.
‘Yeah.’
‘Mate, let me shake your hand. I can’t stop watching those videos,’ he says.
I was completely taken aback. By this time people were looking back and smiling to see what was going on.
But the best was yet to come.
When I went to meet Alex from Decca at the hotel in Victoria, I was a bag of nerves. He was tall, thin, very polite and incredibly well spoken. I felt very Blackburn. We chatted about all the songs that Dad could sing, and agreed: if Alex’s boss was happy, Dad would release a single with the royalties from the single split between the Alzheimer’s Society and Mum and Dad.
I felt reassured when Alex said: ‘Don’t worry, I’ve worked with plenty of artists and understand how they can be – and they don’t even have Alzheimer’s.’
He mentioned getting a live band to sing with Dad.
‘Amazing,’ I thought – that’s exactly what I’d wanted all those months ago when we made Dad’s CD in Blackburn.
I went back to my flat in Borough excited, praying that Alex would be able to get his manager to say yes to the project.
At home I called up Mum and Dad straight away. I was buzzing with excitement.
‘Mum, it’s me. I met with that Decca guy and he’s really keen on signing Dad up.’
‘That’s great. Can I call you back later? We’re just eating our pudding.’
‘Oh… Oh, OK.’
I couldn’t believe it. I’d just called up to tell them the most exciting thing that’d happened for years and they couldn’t speak because they’re eating their pudding?!
On the Friday I called up Alex to see where things where, but his boss hadn’t had a chance to read through his proposal.
‘It’s not going to happen. I can just sense it. I think they’ve probably thought about Dad and his illness and they’re not that bothered,’ I moaned to Nick.
‘Si, give it a chance. They can’t make decisions overnight.’
***
I was at work when I saw Alex’ name flash up on my phone.
‘Would your mum and dad be able to come down to London this Friday? I’ve managed to get a space to record your dad at the studios.’
I wanted to stand up in the office and scream: ‘YES!’ ‘Great,’ I said calmly. ‘I’ll call you in a bit to confirm but I just need to check with them first.’
I put the phone down and tried to carry on working, not telling anyone. I quietly I went to the stairs at the back of the building and called Mum.
‘Mum, they want to do it. Half of the royalties are going to the Alzheimer’s Society and half are going to you and Dad.’
My eyes were watering. I was so excited, but at the back of my mind was a sadness I couldn’t ignore, that all this was going on and Dad hadn’t got a clue.
Dad came on the phone.
‘Dad, you’ve got a record contract.’
‘Oh. Have I?’
‘Yes – they want you to come to London this week and sing with a band.’
‘Brilliant, Sime. That’s brilliant. What do you mean, a record contract?’
I tried to explain but it was no use. I went back to my desk and dropped my collegues Robyn and Ellie a message.
‘Dad’s got signed to Decca.’
They both looked up then Robyn came dashing round.
‘Si, this is amazing.’
‘Don’t tell anyone – he’s still got to sing yet!’
‘I won’t. Oh my God, Si. This is mental!’
Ellie couldn’t stop laughing at the madness of it all.
‘What’s going on?!’ someone else asked.
By the afternoon the whole floor knew about Dad being signed up with Decca.
So Mum and Dad caught the coach down from Blackburn to London. It was a warm summer night and they were stood outside the station – Dad in his big winter coat, even though the weather was boiling hot.
I took them for a meal at a local restaura
nt. Dad was in a great mood and I was confident that the next day would go OK.
But as soon as Dad walked into the lounge the next day, I knew it wasn’t going to go well. He had woken up in a terrible mood. He always starts bad days being very distant and his eyes go very dark, often with huge pupils. All the fun from the night before had gone and instead he looked like he was about to explode at any minute.
‘Not today. Of all the days, not today,’ I said to myself.
‘You alright, Dad?’
‘I’m alright. Always have been, always will be,’ he snapped.
I was right: it was going to be a tough day.
‘Did you sleep OK?’
‘What? Yeah. Where’s the bathroom? I can’t find anything in this shithole!’
‘It’s this way, Dad,’ I replied, and took him to it.
He slammed the door. Disaster.
I put on some of his backing songs to try and get him in the mood and Dad started singing ‘Quando, Quando, Quando’. It sounded absolutely brilliant but you could sense the tension was rising.
I booked a cab to take us to Angel Studios. Dad was talking away in the back and I thought that finally he had calmed down.
‘I’m really nervous,’ I said to Mum.
‘Me too.’
‘What do you mean? Has someone upset you?’ Dad said.
‘Oh no, nothing…’
The Angel Studios is a converted old church.
‘Hi. We’re with Decca and we’re supposed to be recording today,’ I said to a man sitting behind the small desk.
‘Yep – it’s the main studio just down these steps.’
We slowly walked down a small flight of stairs, I pushed open a huge soundproofed door, and – WOW!
The room was massive and there must have been about twenty to thirty musicians setting up. Strings, trumpets, guitar players, the works... I couldn’t believe it.
‘Oh, my God!’ said Mum.
‘I wasn’t expecting this,’ I said.
Dad, meanwhile, was snapping at us to hurry up. ‘Come on, come on, come on, people are waiting for me!’
The ego was rising. Christ! I hoped we would be able to get through this.
Alex came walking up to us.
‘Hello!’
I gave him a huge excited hug, which suddenly felt inappropriate.
‘I thought there’d be about five people. We didn’t expect any of this, I’m blown away,’ I said.
‘Really? I thought I’d emailed you. This is the Guy Barker Big Band – they’re some of the best musicians in the country.’
I introduced Alex to Mum and Dad and he took us to the booth overlooking the orchestra.
I could sense Dad’s temper was rising. His face looked furious.
‘Do you want a cup of tea, Dad?’
‘It would be nice to get a decent drink around here.’
Oh, God!
I went to the mixing booth and made teas for us all, chatting to the guys and trying to warn them that I could sense that Dad’s mood was changing.
When I went back out into the recording booth, Guy Barker was making his way in. He was great. He introduced himself to Mum and Dad, but you could tell Dad just wasn’t interested.
It was so infuriating. Here was a room full of people all willing to make today a success and the only person who wasn’t interested was Dad. If only he could understand what was going on.
‘Dad, all these people here are here to help make your record. They’re going to play outside and if you sing into this microphone they’ll take a recording.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do. I’ve done this for years. I work with some of the best professionals on the planet.’
‘OK, Dad – but if you put on these headphones you’ll be able to hear the band when they start playing.’
‘Nope. I’m not putting that on my head.’
The headphone situation had returned.
‘Please, just for one day let this go smoothly,’ I was praying.
His face was like thunder.
One of the sound engineers came into the booth to try and adjust his microphone, which was on a stand.
‘Nope, nope, nope! I can’t sing into that. You seriously want me to sing into that?’ and then he did the laugh that meant he was going to explode at any second.
‘Listen, I’ve worked with THE BEST MUSICIANS IN ENGLAND…’
‘Dad, we just need you to sing into this microphone so we can record you.’
Meanwhile, a photographer and a videographer were taking pictures of us. Nightmare! I turned to the video guy: ‘Please don’t film any of this. I can just feel he’s about to explode.’
I pulled the sliding door back that separated the band and the recording booth, and shouted over to Guy: ‘Can you play something? It might get us in the mood.’
‘What do you want us to play?’
‘What have you got?’
‘“Beyond the Sea”?’
‘That’ll do!’
The band kicked in. I was taken aback. – I’d never been so close to such a big band before, it sounded amazing.
‘Where’s that music coming from? It’s brilliant,’ said Dad.
By this time, we’d given up on trying to get him to put the headphones on his head and decided that if he could hear the basics of the song he should be able to sing along. It wasn’t ideal but it was the best we could do.
‘Dad, if you sing into this mic we’ll take a recording of it.’
‘I’m a professional. I’ve worked in THOUSANDS… THOUSANDS of clubs…’
‘I know, Dad, but we just want to record you singing.’
It was so frustrating. I so desperately wanted him to be able to do this – it was his one big chance.
He got one verse into the song, then the brass and the flutes kicked in. Dad had become so used to being accompanied by just a piano player and a drummer in the clubs that this knocked him completely.
‘Nope, nope, nope! I can’t work with these twats,’ he said, and walked away from the microphone.
The whole orchestra could hear Dad’s rant through their headphones. I could see them all looking over, still playing, while he was having one of his tantrums. It was horrendous.
‘I’ve worked with professionals all my life but I’ve never worked with TWATS like this before.’
The band stopped and I dashed outside the recording room.
‘I’m so sorry – can you give us a few minutes?’ I asked.
Dad was acting furiously in the recording booth.
We had a break and then took him onto the main floor of the studio with the band. Again, each time the trumpets kicked in he would stop singing, complaining at the state of the band he was singing with.
It was so frustrating – this was his dream and at any other time in his life he would be blowing the roof off with the band. But not today.
Both Mum and I felt incredibly stressed. We tried different places where Dad could sing. He was so used to performing with an audience that singing into space was completely unnatural for him. At one point we had him stand at the back of the room next to the bass guitar player. I was stood next to him and remember seeing the guitar player’s face just willing him to get through the song without kicking off. But it didn’t work.
Eventually we had Dad stood next to Guy Barker at the front of the orchestra. He loved it there – he thought that the orchestra was his audience and was playing up to them. He was slowly coming back again.
We went through a number of songs – ‘Quando Quando, Quando’, ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’, ‘Beyond the Sea’, ‘Let There Be Love’ – and then decided to take a break before we returned in the afternoon.
Mum and I felt down. We went to a local pub and ordered some lunch. Dad hadn’t a clue what was going on, despite us telling him a thousand times. I began to wonder whether I’d done the right thing, then out of nowhere he said: ‘That band was fantastic. Top professionals.’ It was so confusing. A minute ago he
’d had no idea where he was and now he was talking about the band.
Just as we finished our food, Guy Barker and a couple of the guys from the band came in.
I walked over to Guy and the rest of the group at the bar. ‘I’m so sorry about before. He normally wouldn’t be so rude to people.’
‘It’s OK, it went a lot better than we thought it would,’ he said.
‘Really?’
I was completely taken aback. He then took me aside. ‘All the guys are really committed to this. They’ve all waived their fee for the day. It’s amazing what you’re doing – we’ve all seen the videos and it’s just wonderful,’ he said.
I brought Mum and Dad over and we had some photos. ‘Top musicians, these lads are. Brilliant,’ Dad kept announcing.
In the afternoon, we went back to the studio to finalize a few of the tracks. Again, Dad refused to put the headphones on. But he finally started to enjoy himself – it was just the rest of us who were exhausted.
‘I think that’s that, guys. If there’s nothing else then we can wrap up,’ says Alex.
There was one song that we hadn’t done which, for me and Mum, it was essential to record.
‘Hold on, there’s one song Dad always sings: “Here in My Heart”.’
‘OK, go ahead then.’
Dad blasted it out.
You could hear a pin drop. I could see Alex and the sound engineer through the glass looking at each other as if to say ‘Wow!’.
‘Ted, that was spectacular,’ said Alex.
Finally, Dad had arrived.
Chapter 20
It had been an amazing day but we were all exhausted. Dad was in his own world and we could sense that the aggression was starting again. We called it a day and went to bed.
The next day Mum, Dad and I took a train to Wednesbury. It was my cousin’s wife Mary’s fortieth birthday.
As soon as we entered, Dad had a couple of fans that wouldn’t leave him alone. He was having a great time, but the tide was about to turn. I was chatting to my cousin when all of a sudden Mum came up to me.
‘Simon, can you give me a hand?’
I thought she meant she needed some help carrying something from the bar, but when I followed her over, I saw Dad threatening Uncle Colin to a fight.
The Songaminute Man Page 21