Chapter 11
I didn’t hit the ground running so much as walking with a large coffee in my hand, a bag full of demos on my shoulder, and a nervous flutter in my tummy. I had the same feeling I’d had when I left Mattias, of balancing on the cusp of a mighty change, one completely of my making. On the one hand it was certainly empowering. On the other, my efforts would succeed or fail because of me. The other hand made me a bit queasy.
I hadn’t finished writing the little notes to include with the demos until nearly 3 a.m. I planned to hand-deliver one to each club, charming the pants off the booker in the process.
I could have let Royal Mail do the legwork, but with about a million musicians pestering each booking manager, I had as much chance as the other million of being chosen for work. I only just stopped myself before breaking out the flour and eggs to bake cupcakes. There was every chance that domestic goddess bribery might backfire.
The first nondescript entrance, which smelled a bit of wee, masked one of the most venerable live music clubs in London. My aspirations knew no bounds. ‘Hello?’ I called into the murky depths of the bar area.
‘Yes?’ Said the young woman unloading the dishwasher behind the bar.
‘Hi! Is your booker in?’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, okay. Well, I just wanted to stop in and drop off my demo, for any jazz nights you may have coming up.’
‘Give it to me. I’ll give it to him when he’s in.’
‘Is there somewhere I can leave it for him?’
‘Suit yourself. Through there.’ She gestured to the office door. ‘Leave it on the desk.’
I thanked her, hurrying to the office. My heart lurched into my oesophagus when I saw the desk. Dozens of CDs were piled there. Dozens. All the hopefuls who’d come before me. I balanced my demo on top, sure it would be covered within the hour by the next musician with a plan. I thanked the barmaid and trudged to the next venue with a heavy bag and a heavy heart, hoping both would lighten as the day wore on.
By the end of the mission I’d delivered nearly forty demos. Big venues, small ones, top end, bottom of the barrel, I tried them all. The demo piles at the low-end clubs were smaller, and gave me just the tiniest smidge of hope that the booker would call. Only the tiniest smidge. It was such a chicken-and-egg game. Without the exposure of working regularly I wasn’t going to get a manager. And with no manager to pester the venues to give me a chance, I wasn’t going to get the work. I was pretty deflated by the time I got back to the flat.
‘Hello!’ Faith called from the sofa, where she was giving Fred a manicure. Their friendship was still unsettling, though it made perfect sense. Faith got a camp best friend to dote on her and Fred got lovely arm candy. They had the perfect twenty-first-century dysfunctional relationship. ‘How did it go?’
‘I dropped off all the demos, and met a few of the bookers. But I didn’t feel the love.’ I slumped in the chair.
‘Oh, angel heart,’ Fred said. ‘As soon as they hear your music they’ll be on the phone to book you. It just takes some time, that’s all.’
‘I don’t have time! I probably left it too late.’
‘It sounds like you’re talking about popping out bambini,’ Faith said. ‘Don’t worry, music doesn’t have a ticking biological clock.’
‘No, you’re right. Music has an actual clock. And it says that if you’re over about twenty-five, you’re too old.’
‘But you sing for old people,’ Fred said. ‘I mean, you sing for jazz lovers. I’ve seen the clientele at The Boisdale. You don’t have to be a spring chicken in your business. Your voice is beautiful, your songs are beautiful, you worked for years at The Boisdale, and you’ll work in lots of clubs, I just know it.’ He examined his newly buffed nails. ‘You just need to get noticed.’
‘That manager I met suggested that I put something on YouTube. But I don’t know what.’
‘Ohh, porn! Excellent idea. What have you done recently? Though perhaps,’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘Some earlier work would be better for marketing purposes.’
‘Thanks, Fred. No porn. I think he was talking about some singing.’
‘Oh, come on, surely there’s at least one indiscretion posted somewhere on the Net. An “artful” video? Or was it a dirrrty one?’
‘None of the above. The only videos I’ve been in are the ones that Dad makes of Mum and me at Christmas. I don’t even know where they are.’ That was a lie. I was having an attack of the bashfuls. What a great worldwide singing sensation I’d make, afraid to face audiences. I’d be the Banksy of the musical world. ‘I guess I could dig one out.’
Ten minutes later, as the video ended, I was blushing with pride.
‘I think I’m going to cry,’ Faith said. She did look a little wet around the edges. ‘That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘Thanks. It’s really Mum. She’s amazing, isn’t she?’
‘No, B., it’s both of you. The harmony is incredible. I’ve always loved her music, but listening to you both. It’s magical.’
‘That has to be your YouTube track. It’s perfect.’ Fred was bouncing on the sofa, displacing Faith with each landing. Do you have a digital copy?’
‘Fred.’ I sighed.
‘Sorry. I forgot you’re a Luddite. I’ll get it converted to MPEG4 and we can upload it. My mate can do it. B., you’re going to be famous!’
I did love my flatmate. His brutal honesty cut both ways. He wasn’t about to lie just to make me feel better, so I knew he meant what he said. And I did feel a bit better. ‘Thanks. I also called my agent to remind her that I exist. Hopefully that’ll lead to a few gigs, even if I have to dress like a bloody pear again.’
‘We must suffer for our art,’ Faith said. ‘At least you didn’t have your pubic hair pulled out only to have the editor kill the article. Now it’s growing back in and my vagina looks like a–’
‘Too much information! I’m sorry it didn’t get published. And I’m sorry about your stubble. What’s your next assignment?’
‘Just some boring stuff about council cuts. My editor says it’s a promotion–’
‘Congratulations!’
‘Don’t crack the champagne,’ she said. ‘It’s not. It’s just that nobody else wants to go to all the council meetings, so I’m stuck with the job. I give him credit for trying to polish that particular turd, but there’s no getting around the fact that it’s still brown and smells of merde.’ She sighed. ‘Please pass the wine.’
Misery certainly loved company.