of—the Galaxy building, a huge white skyscraper that looms over thecity of Los Angeles, California. They own that building thanks to me, and before they met me they were housed in a dingy low-roofed affair that looked like a vacuum-cleaner repair shop. Galaxy Records was mostly two people back then, Edgar Sexstone and his son Kenneth. The senior Sexstone was interested only in classical music, and he left everything else in the hands of his son. This could have been a mistake, because Kenny was certifiably insane. When I first met him he was sitting in a darkened office listening to a recording of rain. He had a stereo set-up that was for that time very futuristic, woofers and tweeters and all of that, and the sound was so realistic that when I entered the office I felt wet.
“Could we maybe get,” demanded the father, “a little light in here?”
“Let there be light,” said Kenny Sexstone, and in an instant the office was flooded with the stuff. “Hello, men,” said Kenny. “Talk to me. Let’s communicate. You speak, I’ll respond.” Kenneth was a scrawny little man, seeming to be no more than fifteen years of age even though he was then in his early thirties. He looked as though he’d been carved out of wood and then crudely painted, his hair blood-red and solid, his eyes two bright blue marbles. “This is a brother act?” He pointed at Danny and me. “Yin and Yang. Flip and flop. Sturm und Drang.” Kenny Sexstone next aimed his marbly eyes at the father. “Speak away, kind sir. Be my interlocutor.”
The father waved his arms grandiosely. “The Fabulous Howell Brothers.”
“The
Howl
Brothers,” said Kenny Sexstone. I’ve never known whether he misheard or extemporized.
“Desmond and Daniel Howell.”
“Des and Dan. Danny and Des.”
“The tape.” The father held aloft the flat white cardboard box. “The music.”
“The sound,” said Kenny Sexstone. “The feeling.” He threw the tape on to a huge machine and levered it into motion.“Torque Torque” fell out of the huge speakers. It filled the room like a bad smell. I now longed for Maurice Mantle’s tiny three-inchers, because Kenny Sexstone’s monsters amplified every imperfection. Every time my harmonies fell off pitch—singing in the studio is a knack that takes time to acquire—it stung and made me feel ill. Kenny Sexstone winced as though someone were banging him over the head with a ball-peen. I didn’t know then that Kenneth was saddled with perfect pitch, a sense of hearing so acute that he could tell an A 441 from an A 440. Still, Kenny was grinning at the end of the tune, and he smashed the STOP button and said, “Automotive imagery. The way to go. The kids have wheels. Genius at work here.”
“Yeah, well.” The father shrugged modestly.
“Danny and Des, the Howl Brothers.” Kenny Sexstone started up the tape recorder, we all listened to “Foot on the Floor”. It was again very painful for Kenneth, but at the end he was happy as could be. “Yes, yes. I’ll get contracts. Name-in-blood type of thing. I’ll sign you for eternity.”
“I produce them,” said the father. “That’s got to be part of the deal.”
“You produce?”
“I produced this, didn’t I?”
“And,” said Danny—
Danny?
Both the father and I turned to look at him—“and another thing is, we work with this engineer guy, Fred Head.”
Kenneth Sexstone waved his hand dismissively. “Engineers are plebs, my son. Easily shanghaied.”
“Yeah, well,
Kenny
, we only work with Fred Head. Right, Des?”
“Hey,” said the father, “engineers are engineers.”
“Des?” said Danny quietly.
“I would prefer to work with Mr. Head,” I mumbled.
“Enough!” shouted Kenneth Sexstone. “No cause for inconsonance. Mr. Head shall be retained. Now.” He rose frombehind his desk in jerky little hops like a marionette. “It’s tranquillity time.”
“Aw, jeez,” said the father, “I got things to do.”
“Tranquillity
“Could we maybe get,” demanded the father, “a little light in here?”
“Let there be light,” said Kenny Sexstone, and in an instant the office was flooded with the stuff. “Hello, men,” said Kenny. “Talk to me. Let’s communicate. You speak, I’ll respond.” Kenneth was a scrawny little man, seeming to be no more than fifteen years of age even though he was then in his early thirties. He looked as though he’d been carved out of wood and then crudely painted, his hair blood-red and solid, his eyes two bright blue marbles. “This is a brother act?” He pointed at Danny and me. “Yin and Yang. Flip and flop. Sturm und Drang.” Kenny Sexstone next aimed his marbly eyes at the father. “Speak away, kind sir. Be my interlocutor.”
The father waved his arms grandiosely. “The Fabulous Howell Brothers.”
“The
Howl
Brothers,” said Kenny Sexstone. I’ve never known whether he misheard or extemporized.
“Desmond and Daniel Howell.”
“Des and Dan. Danny and Des.”
“The tape.” The father held aloft the flat white cardboard box. “The music.”
“The sound,” said Kenny Sexstone. “The feeling.” He threw the tape on to a huge machine and levered it into motion.“Torque Torque” fell out of the huge speakers. It filled the room like a bad smell. I now longed for Maurice Mantle’s tiny three-inchers, because Kenny Sexstone’s monsters amplified every imperfection. Every time my harmonies fell off pitch—singing in the studio is a knack that takes time to acquire—it stung and made me feel ill. Kenny Sexstone winced as though someone were banging him over the head with a ball-peen. I didn’t know then that Kenneth was saddled with perfect pitch, a sense of hearing so acute that he could tell an A 441 from an A 440. Still, Kenny was grinning at the end of the tune, and he smashed the STOP button and said, “Automotive imagery. The way to go. The kids have wheels. Genius at work here.”
“Yeah, well.” The father shrugged modestly.
“Danny and Des, the Howl Brothers.” Kenny Sexstone started up the tape recorder, we all listened to “Foot on the Floor”. It was again very painful for Kenneth, but at the end he was happy as could be. “Yes, yes. I’ll get contracts. Name-in-blood type of thing. I’ll sign you for eternity.”
“I produce them,” said the father. “That’s got to be part of the deal.”
“You produce?”
“I produced this, didn’t I?”
“And,” said Danny—
Danny?
Both the father and I turned to look at him—“and another thing is, we work with this engineer guy, Fred Head.”
Kenneth Sexstone waved his hand dismissively. “Engineers are plebs, my son. Easily shanghaied.”
“Yeah, well,
Kenny
, we only work with Fred Head. Right, Des?”
“Hey,” said the father, “engineers are engineers.”
“Des?” said Danny quietly.
“I would prefer to work with Mr. Head,” I mumbled.
“Enough!” shouted Kenneth Sexstone. “No cause for inconsonance. Mr. Head shall be retained. Now.” He rose frombehind his desk in jerky little hops like a marionette. “It’s tranquillity time.”
“Aw, jeez,” said the father, “I got things to do.”
“Tranquillity
Similar Books
