MILLION DOLLAR ADVANCE

ANOTHER ABRIDGED CHAPTER FROM MY 60s BOOK ‘YOU DON’T HAVE TO SAY YOU LOVE ME’ - FROM AMAZON, AND AS AN AUDIOBOOK FROM AUDIBLE.

By the mid-1960s, with the British invasion of the U.S. charts - and with Acid and flower power and the advent of the LP - the music business had changed for good.

A new professionalism had taken over and the money to be made was greater than ever. This was an era of big deals and big rip-offs. For the first time, record companies heard managers demanding advances of a million dollars. And they paid them.

I thought one of these million-dollar advances might be quite a nice addition to my bank balance so I decided to invent a new superstar; someone who could translate the current trend for hippy-ism and love into a personal identity. Someone who could make me a fortune.

I held some auditions and came up with a young kid called Derek. He was tall and slender and slightly insipid. Suitably hippie; suitably Christ-like. I renamed him John Camillus and got him to grow one of those sad droopy moustaches that sit on the fence between being hairy and clean-shaven.

I found a song that sounded right and wrote a biography giving weight to the legend of John Camillus - his charisma and his talent - and the limitless backing I was going to pour into his promotion. Then I booked a recording session and sent out invitations to attend it.

All the major record companies were invited including some American ones, complete with first-class air tickets. I booked champagne and canapes and a big orchestra - thirty strings and twelve brass. An artist of John Camillus's stature deserved the best.

In those days Musicians' Union rules forbade overdubbing. Although the studios all had multi-track \machines, the union insisted that everyone play at the same time. And although the singer would later re-record the song on multi-track, he had to sing along too.

A session lasted three hours, and when the three hours had expired the musicians were not allowed to play another note - unless they were in the middle of a take, in which case they could finish it.

Much of the three hours of an orchestral session was taken up with the recording engineer getting a good sound on the drum kit and finding a balance between the string and brass players. With fifty musicians this was a big job, and on the day of my session a few things went wrong. Feigning indifference, I chatted to the heads of the record companies and dispensed champagne. And because John Camillus wasn’t too articulate, he’d been told him to wait in the reception area.

Ten minutes before the session was due to end, we were finally ready to record. I tried to look relaxed but I wasn’t. It was going to be a tight thing.

The conductor raised his baton, the violins raised their bows, the drummer bashed on a couple of tom-toms and they were away.

Halfway through the first verse they ground to a halt. Someone had played a wrong note. The tape was rewound. A trombone player blew his nose. The double bass was tuned up a touch and the conductor lifted his arms again.

One, two, three, four – six minutes to go and they were off again. This time it went better. The verse felt good and there was a tattoo of drums as the violins swept into the chorus. But then they stopped again. The lead violinist was pointing at the vocal booth.

‘Where's the singer?’ he asked grumpily. ‘We can't play without the singer. It's union rules.'

There were four minutes left. I dashed out of the control room and into the lobby. John Camillus was sitting on the reception desk chatting up one of the secretaries. I grabbed him and pulled him towards the studio.

‘Quick! Get in the vocal booth. There’s only three minutes left to get a take.’

He pulled back. ‘I can’t. I can’t.’

‘What d’you bloody mean, you can’t? There’s half the music industry up there. I’ve booked a thousand pounds’ worth of musicians, paid for five transatlantic airfares, and if you’re not in there singing in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to waste the lot.’

‘But I’ve forgotten the song,’ he whined. ‘I can’t remember the tune and I didn’t bring the words with me.’

It really didn’t matter what he sang. As long as he went into the vocal booth and moved his mouth up and down the musicians would be prepared to play.

I shook him vigorously. ‘For God’s sake. Just get in the vocal booth and pretend to sing. It doesn’t matter what, so long as the musicians think you're recording it.’

‘But what do I sing?’ he whined.

‘Anything, dammit. Sing “Roll out the Barrel”. It makes no difference. The mike will be off.’

I pushed him into the vocal booth and sprinted back upstairs. There were two minutes left.  

Suddenly the record company executives were more interested. They were enjoying a bit of drama and they peered eagerly through the window into the recording studio.

I looked at the clock. Only fifty seconds left. But as long as the musicians started now, they could play it through to the end.

The conductor brought his baton down. The drummer bashed his tom-toms and the first verse moved by smoothly. As the chorus began the strings swept up to a high counter-melody and the brass blasted out a nice clean riff. The three hours had ended, too late to start another take, but it didn’t matter - it was perfect.

But then one of the violinists stopped playing. And another one. And the bass guitar stopped too. Till the whole orchestra had died away. They were all looking towards the vocal booth.

Inside, John Camillus was making frantic efforts to wrench open the door.

I was livid. The session was wasted. All that expense! And the embarrassment too. What the fuck could be wrong with this stupid singer? Why on earth should he stop the orchestra in the middle of a perfect take?

He finally got the door open and stuck his head out.

‘Sorry to stop you,’ he shouted. ‘But does anyone know the words to “Roll out the Barrel”?’

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