bona fide
platinum albums act. Who are cool and credible to boot. The mother
lode. True, the fluky, chancing prick just happened to be in the
right place at the right time but who gives a fuck; he is respected
as a ‘music guy’—the ultimate A & R accolade.
I’m not. Which is why I’m pulling myself out of bed at ten in
the morning and, pausing only to throw up, dialling the Martinez
with trembling fingers. Some rude, inefficient French switchboard
bumbling goes on for a couple of minutes before the receptionist
comes back with, “I am sorry, sir, that line is engaged.” I tell
her—with some emotion—that it is a matter of life or death that Mr
Gertschlinger rings me back as soon as he is off the phone.
I crawl across the room and rack up a twelve-quid bill in forty
seconds by swallowing three mini-Cokes from the minibar. Everything
is mini except for my hangover, which is most definitely fucking
maxi. I struggle to place the hangover on my personal Richter
scale. Eight? Nine? I try to remember how the previous night ended,
but it’s like I fell asleep watching some movie and I’m trying to
recall where I saw it up to. Then I throw up again.
Breathing hard, I rub my pulsing temples and look around.
There’s a pool of vomit on the floor, a rusty streak of blood on
the white sheets, pieces of glass from a broken champagne bottle
scattered all over the place, and a woman, a hooker I guess,
looking at me from the bed. Other than that the room seems to be
completely normal.
The hooker—who is black and fat—starts talking to me in French.
I don’t get all of it, but the gist seems to be that I still owe
her money from the night before, for some unspeakable extra I must
have made her perform. I ignore her, lost in wondering exactly how
I’m going to pin the blame for us not signing Rudi’s track on
Darren. The phone rings and I snatch it up.
“Hello?”
“Schteeven? It is Rudi.” He sounds formal, almost stern, and
immediately I know it is bad.
“Rudi, listen, I—”
“I know. I got your message this morning. I am sorry to tell you
this, but I have done the deal with Sony.”
Fucking Nazi cunt fuck shit. “But, Rudi, I told you I—”
“Come on, Schteeven, we are big boys. These things happen.”
I close my eyes and ask him, “Have you signed the contract
yet?”
“As good as. We have a verbal agreement.”
Thank Christ. “How much?”
“Schteeven, it doesn’t matter now. I shook hands on it with
Graham last night. As you know, I am a gentleman. A man of my
word.”
“Come on, Rudi, how much?”
“There will be other records, my friend.”
“ How much?! ”
“Sixty,” he says, almost sounding embarrassed.
“I’ll see you in half an hour,” I say, hanging up.
The hooker gets to her feet, wincing, and tiptoes gingerly
towards the bathroom. She’s clearly having some trouble walking,
and I notice a couple more streaks of dried blood on the backs of
her legs and buttocks. Her tone of voice is properly angry now and
it dawns on me that I must have been going absolutely bananas last
night.
♦
The Barracuda is a Cannes institution. You go into the main
bar—a black, windowless hole just off the Croisette—and drink
yourself senseless for a few hours, ordering bottles of champagne
at two hundred quid a pop, before asking for the ‘special vintage’.
Your credit card is whisked through the machine and you are charged
for another bottle that doesn’t appear. Instead, you get ushered
through to one of the little back rooms where one of the waitresses
hunkers down and slides your balls into her mouth, the waitresses
being, in fact, top-notch ostros. Hookers. The Barracuda is the
music industry in microcosm: the guys are out front dancing around
with champagne glasses on their heads while the girls are chained
up in the back, gargling with spunk. The best part of it is that
the credit-card receipt still reads ‘champagne’, rather than
‘vicious blow job’. Consequently,
platinum albums act. Who are cool and credible to boot. The mother
lode. True, the fluky, chancing prick just happened to be in the
right place at the right time but who gives a fuck; he is respected
as a ‘music guy’—the ultimate A & R accolade.
I’m not. Which is why I’m pulling myself out of bed at ten in
the morning and, pausing only to throw up, dialling the Martinez
with trembling fingers. Some rude, inefficient French switchboard
bumbling goes on for a couple of minutes before the receptionist
comes back with, “I am sorry, sir, that line is engaged.” I tell
her—with some emotion—that it is a matter of life or death that Mr
Gertschlinger rings me back as soon as he is off the phone.
I crawl across the room and rack up a twelve-quid bill in forty
seconds by swallowing three mini-Cokes from the minibar. Everything
is mini except for my hangover, which is most definitely fucking
maxi. I struggle to place the hangover on my personal Richter
scale. Eight? Nine? I try to remember how the previous night ended,
but it’s like I fell asleep watching some movie and I’m trying to
recall where I saw it up to. Then I throw up again.
Breathing hard, I rub my pulsing temples and look around.
There’s a pool of vomit on the floor, a rusty streak of blood on
the white sheets, pieces of glass from a broken champagne bottle
scattered all over the place, and a woman, a hooker I guess,
looking at me from the bed. Other than that the room seems to be
completely normal.
The hooker—who is black and fat—starts talking to me in French.
I don’t get all of it, but the gist seems to be that I still owe
her money from the night before, for some unspeakable extra I must
have made her perform. I ignore her, lost in wondering exactly how
I’m going to pin the blame for us not signing Rudi’s track on
Darren. The phone rings and I snatch it up.
“Hello?”
“Schteeven? It is Rudi.” He sounds formal, almost stern, and
immediately I know it is bad.
“Rudi, listen, I—”
“I know. I got your message this morning. I am sorry to tell you
this, but I have done the deal with Sony.”
Fucking Nazi cunt fuck shit. “But, Rudi, I told you I—”
“Come on, Schteeven, we are big boys. These things happen.”
I close my eyes and ask him, “Have you signed the contract
yet?”
“As good as. We have a verbal agreement.”
Thank Christ. “How much?”
“Schteeven, it doesn’t matter now. I shook hands on it with
Graham last night. As you know, I am a gentleman. A man of my
word.”
“Come on, Rudi, how much?”
“There will be other records, my friend.”
“ How much?! ”
“Sixty,” he says, almost sounding embarrassed.
“I’ll see you in half an hour,” I say, hanging up.
The hooker gets to her feet, wincing, and tiptoes gingerly
towards the bathroom. She’s clearly having some trouble walking,
and I notice a couple more streaks of dried blood on the backs of
her legs and buttocks. Her tone of voice is properly angry now and
it dawns on me that I must have been going absolutely bananas last
night.
♦
The Barracuda is a Cannes institution. You go into the main
bar—a black, windowless hole just off the Croisette—and drink
yourself senseless for a few hours, ordering bottles of champagne
at two hundred quid a pop, before asking for the ‘special vintage’.
Your credit card is whisked through the machine and you are charged
for another bottle that doesn’t appear. Instead, you get ushered
through to one of the little back rooms where one of the waitresses
hunkers down and slides your balls into her mouth, the waitresses
being, in fact, top-notch ostros. Hookers. The Barracuda is the
music industry in microcosm: the guys are out front dancing around
with champagne glasses on their heads while the girls are chained
up in the back, gargling with spunk. The best part of it is that
the credit-card receipt still reads ‘champagne’, rather than
‘vicious blow job’. Consequently,
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