BONEY M

ABRIDGED FROM A CHAPTER IN MY BOOK ‘SOUR MOUTH, SWEET BOTTOM’ AVAILABLE FROM AMAZON OR ANYWHERE ELSE THAT SELLS BOOKS

In the mid 1980s I read in the Sunday Times that the biggest-selling recording artist ever was not, as most people thought, the Beatles, nor even Elvis Presley, but Boney M. Although they’d long since broken up, it gave me the idea of putting them together again, then getting their tracks remixed by PWL, who were churning out hits with Kylie Minogue and Bananarama. So I flew to Frankfurt and met Frank Farian, the group’s producer, who agreed it might be a good idea.

The resulting ‘greatest hits’ album went straight to the top of the charts in every country where it was released, which didn’t include the UK because the dreary fellow in charge of A&R at BMG said it would be bad for his credibility to release something as pop as Boney M.

In France, though, they released both a single and the album on the 1st of June. And since that was the start of France’s three-month annual holiday, when no new product gets put out, both the single and the album went straight to number one and stayed there till mid-September. As a result, 1988 was one of the most enjoyable summers ever.

A couple of years previously I’d been roaming round America overseeing stadium gigs with Wham!. Big stuff, and enjoyable. But nothing compares with the enjoyment of the French seaside during a good summer, so we booked Boney M. into resort towns for three solid months working weekends only, Thursday to Sunday, and had the best summer for years.

I say ‘we’ because I brought Donavon in on the project - my ex. I needed him because Liz, the group’s lead singer, wasn’t too keen on white folk. Donavon was black but wasn’t too keen on stupid folk. I figured between them they’d sort the situation out, and they did. Liz was replaced by a new singer who was delightful: Madeleine Davis.

Since Donavon and I managed them jointly we went with the group on alternate weekends. They lived all over the place and flew into Paris each Thursday morning: Bobby from Amsterdam, Marcia from Florida, Madeleine from Frankfurt and Maisie from London.

We started each week with a cheerful late breakfast at Charles de Gaulle before transferring to the internal flight that would take us to our first gig of the weekend. Early on in those fun-filled three months we changed to a new booking agent. He’d been well recommended but the real reason we changed was because he paid us in advance for thirty performances, which was no small chunk of money. But it began to go wrong from the first gig.

He met us at the airport in a coach but after three hours’ driving I was getting concerned - if any venue was more than three hours from Paris it was in our contract that we should fly.

‘How much further?’ I asked.

‘Just a couple of hours,’ he reassured me.

I settled for making a face. But two hours later with the group near rebellion I was standing over him yelling as the bus bumped angrily along at ninety kilometres an hour heading south-west. ‘You lying bastard − where the hell are you taking us?’

Finally he owned up. ‘It’s just north of Bordeaux but it was impossible to get air tickets because of the holiday season.’

More likely he was saving himself a couple of thousand francs. The problem with these summer gigs was that although the money could be substantial, the towns were often small, with the town council subsidising the gig. When the contract for this one had arrived I’d looked it up on the map and found a small town with the same name on the Normandy coast about two hundred kilometres from Paris. The promoter had probably known I would, but there was little I could do - refuse to carry on - insist on going back to Paris - stop and get out in the middle of nowhere? Of course not. So we soldiered on in the rotten old bus and my management credibility lost bonus points.

Seven hours after leaving Charles de Gaulle the bus arrived in a seaside town with the usual cheerful atmosphere of the South of France in August. It was holiday time, colourful and good-humoured, and the dressing-room was clean, with good local wine and decent French bread and fillings. So everyone calmed down.

The performance would be at 9 pm in a large marquee, big enough to hold six hundred people. Not exactly Madison Square Gardens but that was the beauty of the music business - one month in America doing stadiums, the next in France playing holiday resorts. And when it came to eating and drinking and enjoying life, French resorts won hands down. But at the sound check the group got difficult.

‘This mike stand’s too short.’

‘Bobby’s doesn’t have a switch.’

‘There’s no tea in the dressing room. You know I can’t drink coffee.’

‘Have you told them no photographs?’

The last, from Marcia, who was obsessed with there being no photographs at gigs. Whenever flashes started going off she’d come to the front of the stage and harangue the crowd until they started booing, after which she’d get on with the show as usual. It was a standard part of the group’s performance throughout the summer. But tonight turned out to be different.

After ten minutes the sound system failed. Without the music blaring we became aware of an alternative sound, a howling wind and noisily flapping bits of tent. Then the marquee simply disappeared from above our heads and in poured the rain. It had only been a couple of major gusts, but it was enough to uproot the canvas and leave us standing in the middle of a thunderstorm. The rain came down in slashing waves, the group fled to the dressing room and I ran to the promoter’s office where I found our booking agent under a settee crying his eyes out. The local promoter, a busty, middle-aged, peroxide blonde, was sitting in an armchair swigging from a bottle of red wine.

‘He’s afraid of thunder,’ she explained.

I wrenched him out from under the settee and demanded,

‘Fetch the bus. Take us to the hotel.’

‘The hotel’s at the town you’re playing tomorrow,’ the busty blonde explained. ‘Le Moulleau.’

The agent continued to sob.

I asked the promoter, ‘Are you the promoter of that gig too? It’s not in another tent, is it?’

‘No! We’ve built the stage right on the sand.’

‘Have you checked what time the tide comes in?’

She shrugged and took another swig.

But actually, the next night’s gig was rather good. The tide stayed out, the weather was marvellous, and the mayor treated us to a midnight banquet in the town square.

The South of France in summer - nothing beats it.

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