Gimme More by Liza Cody Read Free Book Online Page B

time. That’s the deal. We do not get a make-over from an old tart everyone’s forgotten. That
ain’t
the deal.’
    â€˜Well …’ says the A&R man.
    â€˜Come
on
,’ says Flambo.
    â€˜I’m bringing her to the Cellar Club tonight,’ says the A&R man, who may look like a limp rhubarb stalk but who has an implacable side to his nature. ‘Talk to her afterwards.’
    â€˜Fuck off,’ Flambo says. ‘We’re staying the way we are. If you don’t like us, why sign us?’
    â€˜We haven’t yet,’ says the A&R man.
    â€˜Like, listen to the man,’ Sapper says.
    â€˜Who else has she worked with?’ Karen asks.
    â€˜Recently?’ the A&R man says. ‘Dream Therapy. You know “On Your Toes”? Six weeks in the charts. That was one of her co-writes.’
    â€˜Six weeks in the charts.’ Sapper repeats the phrase like a mantra.
    â€˜I didn’t know that,’ says Karen.
    â€˜Industrial secret,’ says the A&R man. ‘Bands want to do their own songs but sometimes they need help with writing and arranging. People who spin-doctor songs and don’t get credited are usually called producers. But there are a few who do it just for the money.’
    â€˜Fuck off,’ says Flambo.
    â€˜Six weeks in the charts,’ says Sapper.
    â€˜In your dreams,’ says Corky.
    â€˜Suck it and see,’ says Dram.
    â€˜Birdie Walker,’ says Karen, who has read some of the books and seen photos of Birdie in a coffee-table volume called
Chelsea Chicks – Faces in Film and Fashion (1965-85).
    â€˜I thought she was just a rock’n’roll mattress,’ Corky says.
    â€˜You mind your fucking manners,’ says the A&R man. Up to now he’s sounded like a public school type. Inner Versions stare at him in surprise: there’s more than a touch of Rottweiler in this limp rhubarb stalk.
    A typical Inner Versions gig goes like this: there is a smallish venue, like the Cellar Club. There are two bands. One band is trying out: it’s new, maybe a college band. It opens while people are coming in, buying drinks, horsing around. No one dances. Then Inner-Versions come on for their first set. They have better equipment, a better sound. They are known to the audience because they’ve been doing the local circuit for two years. Some of their numbers are danceable and, if enough beer or pills have been swallowed, people will dance. Inner Versions call these people their Following.
    They know what it’s like to be the opening band. They know how depressing it is to perform for people who aren’t there for them, who aren’t listening, aren’t responding. They know how crucial it is to have a bunch of people, even a small one, who will show up because Inner Versions are on. Their Following is very important.
    Between sets, the band goes to the bar. They mix with their Following. Drinks are bought, pills popped. And why not? The band and the Following are contemporary. There is no distance between them.
    It’s a democratic, friendly scene which Inner Versions would sell their souls to escape. Given half a chance, they would be behind crowd-control barriers, in limos, holed up in luxury hotels, recording in LA studios. Friendly, democratic scenes are what you leave behind when you succeed big-time. They are what you return to when you fail. If, that is, you don’t self-destruct first and never return at all. Heroic failure is also a romantic option. There are mythical burn-outs.
    Tonight, Karen is thinking about one mythical burn-out. She knows Birdie Walker will be somewhere in the audience, watching and listening, so she is thinking about Jack and the nature of heat. There’s the heat of animal magnetism. Jack had buckets of that. Talent’s hot too. Jack had loads of that as well. Luck? Timing? Yes. Yes. Shake them all together and you get a chain reaction. Magnetism and talent