He met Dave at the school gates and they took the Tube to North London.
Dave was nervous, Walli could tell. Walli was not nervous. He knew he was a good musician. Working at the Jump Club every night he heard dozens of guitarists, and it was rare to come across one who was more accomplished than he. Most got by with a few chords and a lot of enthusiasm. When he did hear someone good, he would stop washing glasses and watch the group, studying the guitarist’s technique, until the boss told him to get back to work; then, when he got home, he would sit in his room and imitate what he had heard until he could play it perfectly.
Unfortunately, virtuosity did not make you a pop star. There was more to it than that: charm, good looks, the right clothes, publicity, clever management, and, most of all, good songs.
And Plum Nellie had a good song. Walli and Dave had played ‘Love Is It’ to the rest of the group, and they had performed it at several gigs over the busy Christmas season. It went down well, although – as Lenny pointed out – you could not dance to it.
But Lenny did not want to audition it. ‘Not our type of material,’ he had said. He felt the same as the Kords: it was too pretty and sentimental for a rock group.
From the Tube station, Walli and Dave walked to a big old house that had been soundproofed and converted into recording studios. They waited in the hall. The others turned up a few minutes later. A receptionist asked them all to sign a piece of paper that she said was ‘for insurance’. To Walli it looked more like a contract. Dave frowned as he read it, but they all signed.
After a few minutes, an inner door opened and an unprepossessing young man slouched out. He wore a V-neck sweater with a shirt and tie, and he was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. ‘Right,’ he said by way of introduction, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘We’re almost ready for you. Is this your first time in a recording studio?’
They admitted that it was.
‘Well, our job is to make you sound your best, so just follow our guidance, okay?’ He seemed to feel he was granting them a great favour. ‘Come into the studio and plug in, and we’ll take it from there.’
Dave said: ‘What’s your name?’
‘Laurence Grant.’ He did not say exactly what his role was, and Walli guessed he was a lowly assistant trying to make himself seem important.
Dave introduced himself and the group, which made Laurence fidget impatiently; then they went in.
The studio was a large room with low lighting. At one side was a full-size Steinway piano, very like the one in Walli’s home in East Berlin. It had a padded cover and was partly hidden by a screen draped in blankets. Lenny sat at it and played a series of chords all the way up the keyboard. It had the warm tone characteristic of Steinways. Lenny looked impressed.
A drum kit was set up ready. Lew had brought his own snare drum, and he set about making the change.
Laurence said: ‘Something wrong with our drums?’
‘No, it’s just that I’m used to the feel of my own snare.’
‘Ours is more suitable for recording.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Lew removed his own drum and put the studio snare back on its stand.
Three amplifiers stood on the floor, their lights showing that they were on and ready. Walli and Dave plugged into the two Vox AC-30 models and Buzz took the larger Ampeg bass amp. They tuned to the piano.
Lenny said: ‘I can’t see the rest of the group. Do we have to have this screen?’
‘Yeah, we do,’ said Laurence.
‘What’s it for?’
‘It’s a baffle.’
Walli could tell, from Lenny’s expression, that he was none the wiser; but he let it drop.
A middle-aged man in a cardigan entered through a different door. He was smoking. He shook hands with Dave, who obviously had met him before, then introduced himself to the rest of the group. ‘I’m Eric Chapman, and I’ll be producing your audition,’ he said.
This is the man who holds our future in his hands, Walli thought. If he thinks we’re good, we’ll make records. If not, there’s no court of appeal. I wonder what he likes? He doesn’t look like a rock-and-roller. More the Frank Sinatra type.
‘I gather you haven’t done this before,’ Eric said. ‘But there’s really not much to it. At first it’s best to ignore the equipment, and try to relax and play as if this was a regular gig. If you make a minor mistake, just play through.’ He pointed at Laurence. ‘Larry here is our general dogsbody, so ask him for anything you need: tea, coffee, extra leads, whatever.’
Walli had not heard the English word ‘dogsbody’ before, but he could guess what it meant.
Dave said: ‘There is one thing, Eric. Our drummer, Lew, brought his own snare, because he’s more comfortable with it.’
‘What type is it?’
Lew answered. ‘Ludwig Oyster Black Pearl.’
‘Should be fine,’ Eric said. ‘Go ahead and switch.’
Lenny said: ‘Do we have to have this baffle here?’
‘I’m afraid we do,’ Eric said. ‘It keeps the piano mike from picking up too much drum sound.’
So, Walli thought, Eric knows what he’s talking about, and Larry is full of shit.
Eric said: ‘If I like you, we’ll talk about what to do next. If not, I won’t beat about the bush: I’ll tell you straight that you’re not what I’m looking for. Is that okay with everybody?’
They all said it was.
‘All right, let’s give it a whirl.’
Eric and Larry retreated through a soundproofed door and reappeared behind an internal window. Eric put on headphones and spoke into a microphone, and the group heard his voice coming from a small speaker on the wall. ‘Are you ready?’
They were ready.
‘Tape is rolling. Plum Nellie audition, take one. In your own time, lads.’
Lenny started to play boogie-woogie piano. It sounded wonderful on the Steinway. After four bars the group came in like clockwork. They played this number at every gig: they could do it in their sleep. Lenny went all out, doing the Jerry Lee Lewis vocal flourishes. When they had finished, Eric played back the recording without comment.
Walli thought it sounded good. But what did Eric think?
‘You play that well,’ he said over the intercom when they had finished. ‘Now, have you got something more modern?’
They played ‘Hoochie Coochie Man’. Once again the piano sounded marvellous to Walli, the minor chords thundering out.
Eric asked them to play both songs again, and they did so. Then he came out of the control booth. He sat on an amplifier and lit a cigarette. ‘I said I would tell you straight, and I will,’ he said, and Walli knew then that he was going to reject them. ‘You play well, but you’re old-fashioned. The world doesn’t need another Jerry Lee Lewis or Muddy Waters. I’m looking for the next greatest thing, and you’re not it. I’m sorry.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew out smoke. ‘You can have the tape, and do what you like with it. Thanks for coming in.’ He stood up.
They all looked at one another. Disappointment was written on every face.
Eric went back into the control room, and Walli saw him, through the glass, taking the reel-to-reel tape off the machine.
Walli stood up, about to pack his guitar away.
Dave blew on his microphone, and the sound was amplified: everything was still on. He strummed a chord. Walli hesitated. What was Dave up to?
Dave began to sing ‘Love Is It’.
Walli joined in immediately, and they sang in harmony. Lew came in with a quiet drum pattern, and Buzz played a simple walking bass. Finally Lenny joined in on the piano.
They played for two minutes, then Larry switched everything off, and the group was silenced.
It was all over, and they had failed. Walli was more disappointed than he would have expected. He was so sure the group was good. Why could Eric not see it? He undid the strap of his guitar.
Then Eric came back. ‘What the fuck was that?’ he said.
Dave said: ‘A new song we’ve just learned. Did you like it?’
‘It’s completely different,’ Eric said. ‘Why did you stop?’
‘Larry turned us off.’
‘Turn them on again, Larry, you prick,’ said Eric. He turned back to Dave. ‘Where did you get the song?’
‘Hank Remington wrote it for us,’ said Dave.
‘Of the Kords?’ Eric was frankly sceptical. ‘Why would he write a song for you?’
Dave was equally candid. ‘Because he’s going out with my sister.’
‘Oh. That explains it.’
Before going back into the booth, Eric spoke quietly to Larry. ‘Go and phone Paulo Conti,’ he said. ‘He only lives around the corner. If he’s at home, ask him to pop in right away.’
Larry left the studio.
Eric went back into the booth. ‘Tape rolling,’ he said over the intercom. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’
They did the song again.
All Eric said was: ‘Again, please.’
After the second time he came out again. Walli feared he would say it was not good enough after all. ‘Let’s do it again,’ he said. ‘This time we’ll record the backing first time around, and the vocals after.’
Dave said: ‘Why?’
‘Because you play better when you don’t have to sing, and you sing better when you don’t have to play.’
They recorded the instruments, then they sang the song while the recording was played to them through headphones. Afterwards, Eric came out of the booth to listen with them. They were joined by a well-dressed young man with a Beatle haircut: Paulo Conti, Walli presumed. Why was he here?
They listened to the combined track, Eric sitting on an amp and smoking.
When it ended, Paulo said in a London accent: ‘I like it. Nice song.’
He seemed confident and authoritative, though he was only about twenty. Walli wondered what right he had to an opinion.
Eric dragged on his cigarette. ‘Now, we might have something here,’ he said. ‘But there’s a problem. The piano part is wrong. No offence, Lenny, but the Jerry Lee Lewis style is a bit heavy-handed. Paulo is here to show you what I mean. Let’s record it again with Paulo on the piano.’
Walli looked at Lenny. He was angry, Walli could tell; but he was keeping it under control. He remained sitting on the piano stool and said: ‘Let’s get something straight, Eric. This is my group. You can’t shove me out and bring Paulo in.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that if I were you, Lenny,’ said Eric. ‘Paulo plays with the Royal National Symphony Orchestra and he’s released three albums of Beethoven sonatas. He doesn’t want to join a pop group. I wish he did – I know half a dozen outfits that would take him on quicker than you can say hit parade.’
Lenny looked foolish and said aggressively: ‘All right, so long as we understand each other.’
They played the song again, and Walli could see immediately what Eric meant. Paulo played light trills with his right hand and simple chords with his left, and it suited the song much better.
They recorded it again with Lenny. He tried to play like Paulo, and made a decent job of it, but he did not really have the touch.
They recorded the backing twice more, once with Paulo and once with Lenny; then they recorded the vocal part three times. Finally Eric was satisfied. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we need a B side. What have you got that’s similar?’
‘Wait a minute,’ Dave said. ‘Does that mean that we’ve passed the audition?’
‘Of course you have,’ said Eric. ‘Do you think I go to this much trouble with groups I’m about to turn down?’
‘So . . . “Love Is It” by Plum Nellie will be released as a record?’
‘I bloody well hope so. If my boss turns it down I’ll quit.’
Walli was surprised to learn that Eric had a boss. Until now he had given the impression that he was the boss. It was a trivial deception, but Walli marked it.
Dave said: ‘Do you think it will be a hit?’
‘I don’t make predictions – I’ve been in this business too long. But if I thought it was going to be a miss, I wouldn’t be here talking to you, I’d be down the pub.’
Dave looked around at the group, grinning. ‘We passed the audition,’ he said.
‘You did,’ Eric said impatiently. ‘Now, what have you got for the B side?’