this, because a crimson
mist keeps closing in, a skull-charge of blood keeps dimming my
vision. I feel faint. Sick.
Trellick looks at me and realises exactly what I am thinking.
“You know what they say, young Steven. It’s not dog-eat-dog around
here…” He drains his glass.
“I know,” I say, finishing the aphorism for him, “it’s
dog-gang-rapes-dog-then-tortures-him-for-five-days-before-burying-him-alive-and-taking-out-every-motherfucker-the-dog-has-ever-known.”
“Any more for any more?” Trellick says, pointing at my glass,
signalling with a drinking motion to Darren and Leamington behind
me.
“Wifebeater,” I say.
“Rockschool,” say the other two.
Trellick gets the Stella and the Jack and Cokes in.
♦
Three AM and we are ruling this fucking
place.
We’re in a big, tasteless nightclub somewhere on the outskirts
of Cannes. It must be 120 degrees in here. We’ve commandeered our
own chunk of the packed dance floor right in front of the DJ booth
and we are going bonkers.
Underworld’s ‘Born Slippy’ pounds at festival volume from the
massive sound system. There are about fifteen of us now, with waifs
and strays. I’m leaping around with an ice bucket on my head,
Trellick is down on his knees on the dance floor, playing air
guitar, Darren is spraying champagne all over the place, Ladbroke
is stretched out against a pillar, nearly unconscious.
Schneider and I split another pill and we’re all shouting along
to ‘Born Slippy’, which gets mixed into something else which gets
mixed into something vaguely familiar—tribal drums, lolloping
bass—and we’re all grooving along to it for a minute
before— whump! —the chorus drops: “ WHY DON’T YOU SUCK MY
FUCKING DICK! ” The entire room goes absolutely fucking nuts. By
the time it gets to the second chorus everyone is singing along.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I’m staggering off the dance floor, pushing my way through
dancing, singing idiots, trying to find an exit, pawing in my hip
pocket for the Nokia. Someone puts an arm around me and shouts,
“Hey, Steven! Is this the record you’re signing?”
“Yeah. Done deal.” The lie is automatic.
“Congratulations, mate! Fucking tune.”
Darren looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I
pull him close and—still smiling—scream in his ear, “ Weverbally
agreed the Jacking deal today. OK? ”
He nods and I stumble off towards an exit, dialling Rudi’s
number. It rings a few times before going straight to message.
“RUDI!”—I bellow over the roar of a thousand people screaming
“ WHY DON’T YOU SUCK MY FUCKING DICK! ”—“IT’S STEVEN. JUST TO
CONFIRM—WE DEFINITELY WANT THE RECORD! ‘SUCK MY DICK’? WE WANT IT!
CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THIS!”
I hang up and lean against the wall, catching my breath. The
door to the main room opens and some kid I know from EMI wanders
out, gurning, with sweat pouring off him and some sour-faced
stick-insect cow dressed in nothing but a thong and some duct tape
over her nipples on his arm.
“All right Steven?” he says. “Fucking tune this, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, fierce.”
“Graham was quick off the mark, eh?”
“Uh?”
“Graham at Sony. He signed this record tonight.”
“Yeah?” I swallow.
“Yeah, he was cracking the champagne in the Barracuda with Rudi
Gertschl—”
“Excuse me.” And I’m off.
♦
This is the problem with chasing hit singles—it’s such hard
fucking work. And you have to chase them all the time. If you’re
going to rely on singles to perk up your bottom line then you have
to have a lot of them; four, five, six every year.
This is why I must soon find an act that will sell albums. Smack
an album into the top ten that stays there for a year or two and
you start generating proper turnover. Making real money. You can
start to do less work. (You’ve been watching, you know I’m
overworked.) This is why a little fucker like Parker-Hall is
revered in A & R terms: he has signed a
mist keeps closing in, a skull-charge of blood keeps dimming my
vision. I feel faint. Sick.
Trellick looks at me and realises exactly what I am thinking.
“You know what they say, young Steven. It’s not dog-eat-dog around
here…” He drains his glass.
“I know,” I say, finishing the aphorism for him, “it’s
dog-gang-rapes-dog-then-tortures-him-for-five-days-before-burying-him-alive-and-taking-out-every-motherfucker-the-dog-has-ever-known.”
“Any more for any more?” Trellick says, pointing at my glass,
signalling with a drinking motion to Darren and Leamington behind
me.
“Wifebeater,” I say.
“Rockschool,” say the other two.
Trellick gets the Stella and the Jack and Cokes in.
♦
Three AM and we are ruling this fucking
place.
We’re in a big, tasteless nightclub somewhere on the outskirts
of Cannes. It must be 120 degrees in here. We’ve commandeered our
own chunk of the packed dance floor right in front of the DJ booth
and we are going bonkers.
Underworld’s ‘Born Slippy’ pounds at festival volume from the
massive sound system. There are about fifteen of us now, with waifs
and strays. I’m leaping around with an ice bucket on my head,
Trellick is down on his knees on the dance floor, playing air
guitar, Darren is spraying champagne all over the place, Ladbroke
is stretched out against a pillar, nearly unconscious.
Schneider and I split another pill and we’re all shouting along
to ‘Born Slippy’, which gets mixed into something else which gets
mixed into something vaguely familiar—tribal drums, lolloping
bass—and we’re all grooving along to it for a minute
before— whump! —the chorus drops: “ WHY DON’T YOU SUCK MY
FUCKING DICK! ” The entire room goes absolutely fucking nuts. By
the time it gets to the second chorus everyone is singing along.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I’m staggering off the dance floor, pushing my way through
dancing, singing idiots, trying to find an exit, pawing in my hip
pocket for the Nokia. Someone puts an arm around me and shouts,
“Hey, Steven! Is this the record you’re signing?”
“Yeah. Done deal.” The lie is automatic.
“Congratulations, mate! Fucking tune.”
Darren looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I
pull him close and—still smiling—scream in his ear, “ Weverbally
agreed the Jacking deal today. OK? ”
He nods and I stumble off towards an exit, dialling Rudi’s
number. It rings a few times before going straight to message.
“RUDI!”—I bellow over the roar of a thousand people screaming
“ WHY DON’T YOU SUCK MY FUCKING DICK! ”—“IT’S STEVEN. JUST TO
CONFIRM—WE DEFINITELY WANT THE RECORD! ‘SUCK MY DICK’? WE WANT IT!
CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THIS!”
I hang up and lean against the wall, catching my breath. The
door to the main room opens and some kid I know from EMI wanders
out, gurning, with sweat pouring off him and some sour-faced
stick-insect cow dressed in nothing but a thong and some duct tape
over her nipples on his arm.
“All right Steven?” he says. “Fucking tune this, ain’t it?”
“Yeah, fierce.”
“Graham was quick off the mark, eh?”
“Uh?”
“Graham at Sony. He signed this record tonight.”
“Yeah?” I swallow.
“Yeah, he was cracking the champagne in the Barracuda with Rudi
Gertschl—”
“Excuse me.” And I’m off.
♦
This is the problem with chasing hit singles—it’s such hard
fucking work. And you have to chase them all the time. If you’re
going to rely on singles to perk up your bottom line then you have
to have a lot of them; four, five, six every year.
This is why I must soon find an act that will sell albums. Smack
an album into the top ten that stays there for a year or two and
you start generating proper turnover. Making real money. You can
start to do less work. (You’ve been watching, you know I’m
overworked.) This is why a little fucker like Parker-Hall is
revered in A & R terms: he has signed a
Similar Books
