Gimme More (10 page)

‘You
know
he's as bad as all that,' I say. ‘And I repeat, what's it to you? When did you become Barry's messenger boy?'

He looks at me. ‘There's mutual interest here. Dog owns the rights to
Hard Candy
and
Hard Time.
What Barry has in mind – the definitive appraisal of Jack, the life and work – will stimulate sales. Mo'Zee has all the previous product. They're enthusiastic. In fact they're putting up preproduction money. They'll publish the book too. It's a neat little package, Birdie, and it's all ready to go.'

‘So go,' I say.

‘It won't be definitive without you.'

‘Then it won't be definitive.'

‘In which case, both the BBC and VH1 will pull out.'

‘Good,' I say. ‘I'm tired of myths and legends.'

‘No one else is,' Sasson said. ‘Barry tells me you have the Antigua Movie. And I know there was a whole raft of stuff in Jack's collection – photos, audio tape.'

‘Barry's probably got most of that already. He was thieving from us even before Jack died.'

‘Oh Birdie,' Sasson says, ‘I'm sure you exaggerate.'

‘Do I?' I say. ‘Everyone was at it. They'd say it didn't matter – like nicking towels or ashtrays from a hotel – just a little souvenir. Jack won't notice – he's got plenty. He won't miss a little photo, he won't mind if private letters disappear or personal conversations are taped secretly.'

‘Yes, I know,' he says. ‘It can be very trying. But Barry was a friend.'

‘Barry was a groupie. He still is.'

‘Nevertheless, he's a groupie with a big fat chequebook who can pay a big fat fee. In fact,' he adds, as if he's only just thought of it, ‘I can arrange things so that you don't have to deal with Barry at all.'

‘You can?' I say, with a cute little flutter of surprise.

‘Why not? Dog has an interest. I know things have been tough for you lately. But we can turn that around.'

I sigh, pure longing and nostalgia.

‘Of course you're right about Barry,' Sasson says sympathetically, ‘but he does talk a good game. Maybe he hasn't changed though.'

Yeah, Sasson, maybe he hasn't. But you have. You seem to be making a bid which could cut Barry out of the deal. I can still get to you, babe.

I gather my purloined velvet around me as if I'm cold, and say, ‘I'm so tired, Sasson. This thing follows me everywhere I go like a long shadow. I used to have some protection … I really miss that.'

‘Are you on your own now?' He leans forward, interested. He really, truly doesn't know a thing about me. Dog's accounts department and a few commissioning producers know more than he does. And all they have are my sister's address and one of my e-mails.

I shrug my shoulders and say wistfully, ‘Nothing lasts.' Poor Birdie – she's had the best and now nothing less can ever match up. She's softened by nostalgia.

Sasson leans across the table and takes my hand. He says, ‘We have a history, don't we? Not an easy one, admittedly. But wasn't I always pretty straight with you?'

Yeah, you were, Sasson. You resented me in a pretty straight way. It's true, I always knew where I was with young Sasson.

‘Yes,' I agree. ‘You were pretty straight. But Dog wasn't.'

‘That's contractual, Birdie. That's to do with accounting periods and lawyers. Besides, back then, it wasn't even Dog.'

‘Copyrights and title,' I say. ‘I was cut out every which way.' I don't withdraw my hand and nor does Sasson. It's a warm clasp. Forgiving. He will forgive me for being a greedy bitch if I'll play nicely now.

‘Maybe it's time we looked at all that again,' he says. He strokes my knuckles with his thumb. It's a nice hand, warm and smooth. Yes, he has a good hand. All the cards, where contracts, royalties and deductions are concerned, are in his hand. All the lawyers are in the palm of that hand too.

I say, ‘I'm tired of fighting. I just want to know that, if I supply any new materials to you, they belong to me. I want to be accepted as the owner of my own image for a change. I want to be paid for my own work.'

‘If there are any new materials, we'll sort it out,' Sasson says, dismissing the crux of the matter with a reassuring squeeze. Does he have any idea how many reassuring squeezes this old hand of mine's endured? How quickly the reassuring squeeze turns into a stranglehold?

He goes on, ‘It all depends on what you have. What's on the film, Birdie?'

‘Music and memories,' I say. ‘A lot of beach stuff, as far as I can recall. But the bit Barry wants is the recording work. I don't know – it was a long time ago.'

Sasson has his reactions well in hand now. He shows no particular interest. He says, ‘We'll have to show it to the lawyers. But I promise you that if you give it to Dog you'll be fairly compensated.'

Now's the time to withdraw my hand.

I say, ‘It's not just the film. It's the music rights, the publishing, copyrights, authorship … That whole can of worms.'

‘We'll look at all that again,' Sasson says. ‘Just show us what you've got.'

‘Oh Sasson,' I sigh. ‘Give me a break, man. I don't even know where next month's rent's coming from. If you cut my baby band I'll be out of work again.'

‘Your baby what?'

‘Inner Versions. The band I'm working with.'

‘Never mind that,' says Dog's Managing Director. ‘We've got much more important things to think about. What we're talking about is nothing short of a multi-media event.'

‘I know,' I say. ‘But I don't want to rake up the past. What
concerns me is making a living in the here and now. Making music, working with a young band which needs a commitment from you.'

‘But compared with Jack they're nothing,' he says, looking puzzled. ‘What was it you said? Not good enough musically to make up for … what was it … shaggability?'

‘They need help,' I admit. ‘I was trying to find out how committed Dog was to its could-do-a-lot-better-with-a-little-help bands. And you wouldn't answer. I did not say they were “nothing”. It's not up to me to dismiss them or sign them. That's up to you. And you'll probably never hear them.'

‘I'll come and listen to them if you like.' He lets a little of his irritation show. He nearly had me, and now, for some whimsical reason, I've changed the subject.

‘They aren't ready,' I say. ‘If you want to show some interest, give them a few months' more development – enough to polish up a tight set list. Let them record it. And then send them out to open for one of your name bands. Let the punters choose. That's the fair way. That gives them a chance to make something slowly and test it against a live audience.'

‘That seems fair.' Sasson pretends to think about it. ‘But I don't know what the bean-counters'll say.'

‘Just give them something to sell – could be two or three numbers on a single. Count units sold at live performances. Also, and this is important, ask a producer to persuade the frontman into voice coaching. He's okay, nice natural voice, but imprecise. And there's a nasty gap between his head and chest voices which exercises could fill in fine.'

Sasson stares at me. He says, ‘You never used to be this analytical, Birdie.'

Did I not, Sasson, babe? I used to wear a T-shirt which said, ‘Speak slowly, I'm a blonde.' Nobody but me saw the joke. I used to be very young, very pretty and very fanciable. Everyone looked. My God, how they looked. But no one listened.

Sasson says, ‘This front man – this singer – is there something going on that I should know about?' He's smiling, intimate, sharing what he thinks is a pleasantry.

Abruptly, I rise to my feet. I walk.

Head high, long easy strides, velvet swinging, I walk out on Sasson Freel – every inch of me a wounded queen. An immaculate exit. Eye-catching too. Several heads turn to watch my passing.

Outside, moving as fast as I can without actually sprinting, I turn east and disappear down the underpass. Not bad for an old broad.

Sasson would try to make a dignified departure from the Pizza Express. He would reason that when he got outside I would be somewhere in sight. He would think that I wanted to be caught, mollified, petted and stroked because, otherwise, why did I walk? Women want to be caught. Women want to kiss and make up, be reassured. Women always give you a second chance, don't they, Sasson?

Not this one. And anyway, it was time to go. Time to let him think or stew a little. He just gave me a good excuse.

I walked along Piccadilly, mingling with the tourists, thinking, yes, it
is
time to go. I was tired of juggling two jobs and sorting out other people's lives for them. I'd been reliable for weeks, and being reliable is boring and exhausting.

I stopped at a public phone and called the office. The sweet old man answered the phone. I tell him that my niece has been involved in a motor accident in Paris.

‘Of course you must go,' he says. ‘How very worrying.'

I say, ‘I'm the only one in the family who speaks half-way decent French.'

‘Don't bother about us,' says Mr Adler. ‘Just tell us if there's anything we can do.'

‘You're very kind,' I say. And it's true. The lie was especially chosen for a kind man.

‘I shouldn't be gone for more than a week,' I say, anxious and regretful.

I took a taxi to Maida Vale and an address nobody knows. After that, with a sizable slice of fuck-you money, I went back to Robin's house.

The next morning I was on a plane to the States. I even wangled myself an upgrade. Birdie flew away. Club Class.

Stretched out, ankles crossed, sipping complimentary wine, I
breathed out slowly. Yes! It was time to bask in the sun, to go fishing for real fish, to let the mud I'd stirred up in that cold English pool settle. I get restless and claustrophobic in England. It's all too tight for me, and reliability just isn't my thing. When I got back, one way or another, things would be clearer. Sometimes success depends on knowing when to take yourself out of the game.

I wanted to empty my mind, to feel loose, but images of Sasson leaked in. In the old days, I wouldn't have given him a second thought. But somewhere, in the intervening years, he had muscled up. He now had power, status and money. I'm almost Darwinian about that. A man or woman with power and status is far more useful to me than one without.

But along with the benefits comes the danger. A man or woman with power and status should be manipulated with caution. They are strong, often at the expense of people like me.

When Junior Moline's career stalled there was no one to blame but Junior, and he was too laidback even to do that. On his business card, if he could find one, it said: ‘Producer/Engineer', and it's true that he'd had his moments. Years ago he'd worked with some very big names. Years ago he'd been going places. He'd travelled all over the world, on tour with bands, in studios with bands. And then, one day, he found himself in New Orleans.

What he always said was, ‘They don't call New Orleans the Big Easy for nothing. Well, I'm big and easy myself, where else should I go? My feet got stuck in the Mississippi mud.'

It could be said too that his mouth got stuck to the business end of a chillum, and his arse got stuck to the cane chair on his lady's balcony, and his ears and heart got stuck to the throb of Delta blues.

It wasn't that he didn't work. He did work. Regularly. Seven days a year. On the last weekend of April and the first weekend of May during the Jazz Festival anyone could find him out at the Fairground wearing a sweat-stained Stage Krewe T-shirt decked with backstage passes. Happy as Larry, balancing instruments, monitors and microphones.

‘One-one, two-two. One-one, tsu-tsu. One-one, chu-chu. Little more off the top there … One-one, tsu-tsu. Yeah, got it.' Seven acts a day with only thirty minutes between them to break down one set and then sound-check for the next lot.

Yes, he worked hard then, his big feet slapping across the boards in open-toed sandals, and as the day wore on, his outsize jeans slipped lower and lower and his T-shirt slid higher until everyone
in the crowd below could see what he called his double bass. Sometimes, friends and acquaintances, partying out there on the other side of the crush barrier, would call up rude remarks about his increasing girth. And he would call back, ‘Do you mind? I'm proud of this – I built it myself. Brick by brick.'

Then, laughing, a friend might lob a can of Miller Lite over, and later, backstage, Junior Moline would sit back replacing fluid lost in the thirty-minute scramble. He would feel the beer vibrating in the can to the beat of bass and drums. He'd know that everyone in front of the giant stacks of speakers would be feeling something close to cardiac massage from the sound he'd helped to produce. Sound waves, punching through the hot, humid air, rattling your ribs, nudging your lungs and hammering on your heart. Exactly how live music ought to be felt out there in the sun.

Junior Moline loved the Festival. Once a year all the talent spawned and nurtured around the Delta crawled out into the sunshine and made sweet music for New Orleans to dance to. Jazz, blues, cajun, zydeco, R&B, rock, latin, reggae, country, with a dash of hip-hop, African and Native American for seasoning. There was a gig for everyone. No matter what you played, there was always someone to dance. No matter how badly you danced there was always someone to play for you. And there would always be people like Junior EQing the sound.

In the beginning it was the Festival that brought him to New Orleans. He first came with an American band he'd been recording with in London – out of England's tight grey fist into the hot wet light. A climate he fell into, relaxed into, like a warm bath on a cold night.