RIDING THE ROCKING HORSE

CONDENSED FROM MY BOOK ABOUT THE SIXTIES, ‘YOU DON’T HAVE TO SAY YOU LOVE ME’, PUBLISHED BY EBURY PRESS AND AVAILABLE AS AN AUDIO BOOK ON AUDIBLE.

In 1967 I developed a theory. All over the world there were record company A&R men sitting in plush stereo-equipped offices, anxiously waiting for a producer to turn up out of the blue with that elusive number one record.

At a minimum, a hit would guarantee another year's employment. At a maximum, perhaps a move up the ladder towards the CEO’s office.

I figured, if a producer turned up with a bit of enthusiasm and told the A&R man he'd found the greatest act ever known to the music industry, Mr A&R would want to believe him so badly that his natural scepticism would dissipate in a cloud of reckless fantasy. If he was told how good-looking the new group was, how exciting, how intelligent, how commercial - in his own mind Mr A&R would already be hearing his own imagined hit record, listening to his own ideal of commercial pop music, living the dream of everything he’d hoped for.

But if he was played a tape, his fantasy would vanish. Confronted with the reality of bass, drums, guitar and vocal, he’d panic. He’d have to make a judgement and he’d see the producer as his enemy, come to steal his budget. So I decided the best way to make deals with these people was to keep them away from music.

I sold my idea to Ray Singer, a singer-comedian turned record producer who'd just had a number one with Peter Sarstedt's 'Where Do You Go to, My Lovely'. We formed a company together called Rocking Horse, then, with a shared sense of humour and a passion for food, we set off eating and laughing our way around the world's record companies.

To start off with we tackled America. We made our first tentative approach at RCA, but we didn't get to see the right person. The man we saw lacked imagination. He kept saying, 'I gotta hear a tape.'

At ABC our luck turned. We were shown into one of those hissing-clean air-conditioned offices stuck around with framed gold records. Sitting behind a desk full of family photos was the standard overweight American executive, his mouth corked with an eight-inch roll of smoldering Havana leaf - a lighted beacon stuck in a mountain of pudgy flesh. Protruding from his jacket sleeves on to the blotter in front of him were two balloon-shaped hands. One of these was proffered to us in case we wanted to try shaking it. I did, Ray couldn't bring himself to.

'So whatta you guys got for me?' Pudgy Mountain rasped from behind his saliva-soaked cigar.

I could see Ray was already hoping we could find an excuse to leave so he left it to me to explain that we'd come across the most staggering find of the decade, a rock group of such magnetism and force that it had reduced us both to palpitations.

'A group of this stature,' I concluded, 'obviously deserves a record company of a similar quality, so we got the first plane to New York and came straight here to see you.'

I suddenly realised I didn't know Pudgy Mountain's name. I hadn't listened when the secretary had shown us in.

'I gotta hear a tape,' he told us, 'I gotta hear dis great group.'

Ray overcame his distaste of the situation and joined in. 'We didn't do one,' he explained. 'We were so excited by them we just came straight here to see you. You've got such a reputation for breaking this kind of act we figured it had to be you. We were hoping you'd come back to England with us and take a look at them.'

‘You guys are crazy. I can't do somethin' like that. I gotta job to do.'

We looked suitably disappointed. I said, 'Oh well then, if you really have to hear a tape, I guess that's it. We'd better talk to someone else. It's too bad though, they would have been great for you. We sort of figured, be-cause of our track record in the business, you'd trust our judgement.'

I knew he wanted to take them, I was trying to help him justify it to himself. He sucked hard on his cigar and two drips of nicotine-brown saliva rolled down his chin and dripped on to the blotter. 'So whadda dey called, this group?' he asked.

There was a blank moment. It was crazy, but despite all our plans Ray and I had never decided what we'd call the first group we did a deal for. We had a stack of names ready but we hadn't agreed the first one. I said, 'Brut.' Ray said, 'Plus'. Pudgy Mountain looked confused.

I changed to 'Plus', Ray changed to 'Brut', and Pudgy Mountain looked more confused.

I made a quick explanation. 'The group are called Plus but we don't think that's a very good name, so we might change it to Brut.'

Pudgy Mountain chewed on his gooey brown roll of leaves and said, 'I think Plus is a great name. I don't want it changed.'

Which more or less confirmed the deal.

With that first one under our belt, there was no stopping us. For the next two years we sold act after act, album after album, without ever playing a note to the A&R men we sold them to. We would come back to the UK, find acts to match the deals we’d made, and record them - then jet back to the States, hand in the tapes, and amid raves for the results from the record companies, we’d sign another round of contracts. From all this we ended up with some pretty good acts. One of them - Forever More – changed its name to The Average White Band and morphed into one of the top acts in the world. Others found less success, yet still enough to get us our next round of deals – Plus, Brut, Fresh, Splash, Pudding, Heavy Jelly, and many more.

And in doing all this, there was only one occasion when we didn’t get away with not playing the A&R guy any music. It was when we were in LA. The company was on Sunset and when we were shown into his office the boss was on the phone.

As he waved the usual fat hand towards two armchairs, he continued talking into the mouthpiece. 'Charlie, baby, you's a sweet guy but I can't go runnin' round lickin' everybody's ass just ‘cos you say so.'

He winked at us, covered the phone with his hand and said, 'Sorry guys, I won't be much longer wid dis mudderfucker.'

Then down the phone he gave off with a few more ‘Charlie babys’.

It's never a smart thing to do because the people in the room know that one day when they’re on the phone to you they’ll get the same treatment. Ray began to get his 'I want to leave' look.

But Mr Mudderfucker had finished. `So whadda you guys come to see me about?'

I went straight to the point. 'We've got this amazing song. It's astounding. One of those things you hit on once in a lifetime and you know immediately it's going to be the smash of all time.'

'So let's hear it,' he told us. 'You gotta tape?'

Ray said, 'We couldn't make one. The idea was so simple, so catchy, that we were scared to go in the studio and do a demo. Someone might have nicked the idea.'

Mudderfucker was confused. 'So you have dis song, I gotta hear it. How do I hear it widout de tape?'

We could play it for you,' I volunteered, and Ray gave me a puzzled sideways glance.

'Play it?' said Mudderfucker. 'Dat's a good idea. Whaddya need, a piano?'

'Sure,' I told him, 'that'll do. I'll play the piano and Ray will sing it.'

Ray gave me a nervous look. But as Mudderfucker led us down the passage to a room with a piano I encouraged him with a wink.

I don't play the piano too well but I figured if I made myself look like Jerry Lee Lewis and banged my hands up and down in a basic chord shape, I could leave Ray to do something more musical. So I started.

Ray stood silent for a few seconds then leant his head back and started making a noise like a baby crying. He changed this to a Muslim prayer call, a bereaved elephant, a castrated pig and an angry parrot. Then repeated it.

Two minutes later, by some miracle of communication, I played a final chord just as Ray hit a rather beautiful low note.

I turned to Mudderfucker and smiled. ‘So ... what d'you think?'

He was totally screwed up. He didn't know what to say. He looked from me to Ray and back again. He just couldn't figure out if he was being taken or not. Eventually he said, 'It didn't quite get to me first time.'

I offered to play it again.

'No, no, no,' he said desperately. 'There's no need. You can do it. I think it's a smash. Make me the record.'

Ten minutes later we ran out of the building with a cheque for ten thousand dollars.

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