Leading Republicans denounced the petition. McCullough of Ohio said it had irritated people who might otherwise have supported the civil rights bill. Gerald Ford told reporters that the Rules Committee should be allowed time to hold hearings, which was rubbish: everyone knew that Smith wanted to kill the bill, not debate it. All the same, reporters were briefed that the petition had failed.
But Johnson was not discouraged. On Wednesday morning, he spoke to the Business Advisory Council, eighty-nine of the most important American businessmen, and he said: ‘I am the only President you have; if you would have me fail, then you fail, for the country fails.’
Then he addressed the executive council of AFL-CIO, the largest federation of unions, and said: ‘I need you, I want you, and I believe you should be at my side.’ He got a standing ovation, and the Steelworkers’ thirty-three lobbyists stormed Capitol Hill.
George was sitting down to dinner with Verena in one of the restaurants there when Skip Dickerson passed their table and hissed: ‘Clarence Brown has gone to see Howard Smith.’
George explained to Verena: ‘Brown is the senior Republican on Smith’s committee. Either he’s telling Smith to tough it out, and ignore the lobbying . . . or he’s saying that Republicans can’t take this pressure much longer. If two people on the committee turn against Smith, his decisions can be overturned by a majority vote.’
‘Could it all be over so quickly?’ Verena marvelled.
‘Smith may jump before he’s pushed. It looks more dignified.’ George moved his plate away. Tension had ruined his appetite.
Half an hour later, Dickerson came by again. ‘Smith caved,’ he crowed. ‘There will be a formal statement tomorrow.’ He walked on, spreading the news.
George and Verena grinned at one another. Verena said: ‘Well, God bless Lyndon Johnson.’
‘Amen,’ said George. ‘We have to celebrate.’
‘What shall we do?’
‘Come to my apartment,’ said George. ‘I’ll think of something.’
32
There was no uniform at Dave’s school, but boys were mocked for being overdressed. Dave took some ribbing on the day he showed up in a four-button jacket, a white shirt with long collar points, a paisley tie and blue hipster trousers with a white plastic belt. He did not care about the teasing. He had a mission.
Lenny’s group had been on the fringes of show business for years. As things stood, they could spend another decade playing rock and roll in clubs and pubs. Dave wanted more than that in 1964. And the way forward was to make a record.
After school, he took the Tube to Tottenham Court Road and walked from there to an address in Denmark Street. On the ground floor of the building was a guitar shop, but beside it was a door leading to an office above, and a nameplate that said: CLASSIC RECORDS.
Dave had spoken to Lenny about getting a recording contract, but Lenny had been discouraging. ‘I’ve tried that,’ he had said. ‘You can’t get through the door. It’s a closed circle.’
That made no sense. There had to be a way in, otherwise no one would ever make records. But Dave knew better than to chop logic with Lenny. So he decided to do it on his own.
He had begun by studying the names of the record companies in the hit parade. It was a complicated exercise, because there were many labels all owned by a few companies. The phone book had helped him sort them out, and he had picked Classic as his target.
He had called their number and said: ‘This is British Railways Lost Property. We have a tape in a box marked: “Head of Artists and Recording, Classic Records.” Who should we send it to?’ The girl who answered the phone had given him a name and this address in Denmark Street.
At the top of the stairs he found a receptionist, probably the one he had spoken to on the phone. Assuming a confident air, he used the name she had given him. ‘I’m here to see Eric Chapman,’ he said.
‘What name shall I say?’
‘Dave Williams. Tell him Byron Chesterfield sent me.’
This was a lie, but Dave had nothing to lose.
The receptionist disappeared through a door. Dave looked around. The lobby was decorated with framed gold and silver discs. A photograph of Percy Marquand, the Negro Bing Crosby, was inscribed: ‘To Eric, with thanks for everything.’ Dave noticed that all the discs were at least five years old. Eric needed fresh talent.
Dave felt nervous. He was not accustomed to deception. He told himself not to be timid. He was not breaking the law. If he were found out, the worst that could happen was that he would be told to get out and stop wasting people’s time. It was worth risking that.
The secretary came out, and a middle-aged man stood in the doorway. He wore a green cardigan over a white shirt and a nondescript tie. He had thinning grey hair. He leaned on the doorpost, looking Dave up and down. After a moment he said: ‘So Byron sent you to me, did he?’
His tone was sceptical: obviously he did not believe the story. Dave avoided repeating the lie by telling another. ‘Byron said: “EMI has the Beatles, Decca has the Rolling Stones, Classic needs Plum Nellie.” ’ Byron had said nothing of the kind. Dave had figured it out for himself, reading the music press.
‘Plum what?’
Dave handed Chapman a photo of the group. ‘We’ve done a stint at The Dive in Hamburg, as the Beatles did, and we’ve played the Jump Club in London, like the Stones.’ He was surprised he had not yet been thrown out, and he wondered how much longer his luck would hold.
‘How do you know Byron?’
‘He’s our manager.’ Another lie.
‘What sort of music?’
‘Rock and roll, but with a lot of vocal harmonies.’
‘Just like every other pop group at the moment.’
‘But we’re better.’
There was a long pause. Dave was pleased that Chapman was even talking to him. Lenny had said: ‘You can’t get through the door.’ Dave had proved him wrong there.
Then Chapman said: ‘You’re a bloody liar.’
Dave opened his mouth to protest, but Chapman held up a hand to silence him. ‘Don’t tell me any more whoppers. Byron isn’t your manager and he didn’t send you here. You might have met him, but he didn’t say Classic Records needs Plum Nellie.’
Dave said nothing. He had been caught out. This was humiliating. He had tried to bluff his way into a record company and he had failed.
Chapman said: ‘What’s your name, again?’
‘Dave Williams.’
‘What do you want from me, Dave?’
‘A recording contract.’
‘There’s a surprise.’
‘Give us an audition. I promise you won’t regret it.’
‘I’ll tell you a secret, Dave. When I was eighteen, I got my first job in a recording studio by saying I was a qualified electrician. I lied. The only qualification I had was grade seven piano.’
Dave’s heart leaped in hope.
‘I like your cheek,’ Chapman said. A little sadly, he added: ‘If I could turn back the clock, I wouldn’t mind being a young chancer all over again.’
Dave held his breath.
‘I’ll audition you.’
‘Thanks!’