Death of a Rock Star: A Boy in the Band Novella (12 page)

I’ve always been a sucker for a boy in a band, specifically a bad boy in a band - the badder the boy the better. While you’d never bet your heart on one of these guys, you sure can have a hell of a ride for a while. I’ve had more than a handful of crazy rides so far. They’ve been beautiful while they lasted, but brief for the most part, and that’s been fine with me. No strings. In my line of work, you can’t afford to have strings. I have to love them and then let them go. That’s the thing with rock stars. They’re never really yours. They never can be. Once you get your head around that fact, then that’s when it becomes fun and not torture.

With this obsession – although sometimes I wonder if it’s actually an affliction – it seems fitting that I ended up working in the music business. Although it’s no fluke. I work for Artemis Records. Not a huge label. More of an Indie outfit really. But it is
the
Indie label every new act out there is gunning for. I’m the head A&R girl, which means I scout the talent, tout the talent and liaise between the artists and the label. I have my finger on the pulse. I pre-empt the trend before it happens. I’m the mind reader, the nanny, the diplomat, the shit shoveller. I’ve had a few of my signings be bought out from under us by the bigger names. That means I rock at my job. It also means I’ve been head hunted by all those major labels, but I love Artemis, and I can’t see myself ever leaving. I love Denton my boss. He’s a fucking genius. He taught me everything he knows.

Alongside all the shittier stuff, the job has its upsides: The easy money, the partying, the free gigs, the free booze, the rock stars. I
try
not to mix business and pleasure too often. I try to be good, really I do. But sometimes I slip, so shoot me. I can count on one hand the boys in bands I’ve had who were no good in the sack. Sex and rock and roll just seem to go hand in hand – I swear that if it was studied, it would be proven that those two skill sets share the same DNA markers.

I got a tip off from Bernie about the band I’m here to see tonight – The Flood. They’re a four piece who’ve recently moved up here from Brighton. Bernie was at uni with the lead guitarist. This is only their third support gig in London. They’re a little too Emo for my taste, but they’re good. Really good. They far outclass the bigger band that they are meant to be supporting. The front man has that tortured punk-gothic vibe going on and is wearing too much makeup, but he has presence. They’re a little rough around the edges, but I see real potential here. The room is alight with it. There are a couple of catchy floor fillers in their repertoire already and the crowd is eating them up. I know that Denton will love them. The pound signs of a nice juicy bonus start flashing before my eyes. This moment. This precise moment here is why I love my job so much. Knowing I’m on to something big.

And would you believe it, I’m the only A&R here tonight. It’s practically unheard of to get first dibs on a hot new act like this. A&Rs are typically pack creatures. There’s usually ten other guys to trample over and elbow out of the way before I even get anywhere near the band. But this band is so new on the London scene that word hasn’t had chance to filter through about them yet. There’s nothing quite like a bit of insider information. I make a mental note that I owe Bernie a big night out, on me.

I do have one advantage over all the guys in this game though, and that is my womanly wiles. The boys in the bands seem to be just as much a sucker for me as I am for them. A reasonably good looking A&R girl has a distinct advantage, an edge. You’re essentially the ultimate groupie, but one who has the irresistible glimmer of a potential record deal in her arsenal.

My job is the perfect job if you love to fuck up and coming rock stars, which I do probably more often than I should.

Denton overlooks this foible of mine because I’m so good at my job, and I don’t let it get in the way of what I do. If anything, it helps. Sometimes my reputation precedes me and more often than not that is what gets my foot in the door, gets my first hook up with the band.

Listening to me I know it sounds like I’m not picky. That I’d fuck any guy who can strum a few chords on a guitar, but I assure you that is not the case. The guys I fuck are the crème de la crème, only the best for me. If I named names, you’d be pretty shocked and I’m proud to say I fucked them all when they were on their way up. Before they were tabloid fodder or the prey of movie goddesses, models and the spoilt daughters of oligarchs.

I also know I sound like I’m ancient, but I’m only twenty four. I feel ancient though. I’ve been at Artemis for nearly six years. I was sixteen when I threw myself at Denton’s feet outside The Ivy and pleaded for a job. Impressed by my audacity and unwillingness to take no for an answer, he bought me dinner and then hired me as his gofer. I think that my story appealed to his innate goodness and sense of charity, and I became his little Orphan Annie, his protégé. I spent two years shadowing him, learning from the best. Then when he left Telstar to set up Artemis he took me with him and let me loose. At eighteen, I was one of the youngest A&Rs out there. It took a couple of prescient signings to earn the credibility that I have now. If you work in the industry, you sure as shit will have heard of me. The name Sylvie Smith is synonymous with success.

I’m overdressed for this gig tonight. I’ve come straight from an awards show, and I’m a few glasses of champagne worse for wear. I’m still sober enough to know a great act when I see one though. The Vine is a popular venue on the London club circuit. The gig space has that ‘upstairs room of an old East End boozer’ vibe that is so on trend with the likes of the Hoxton set at the moment. There are lots of boho chic girls here with nouvelle mod guys. It’s all very, very trendy in a purposefully ‘unknowing’ way. I kind of stick out like a sore thumb. I’m a hundred and fifty percent killer rock chick this evening. The VOX awards don’t really call for understated chic. My spikes give me a great view of the stage though. There’s a real buzz in the place. It’s that unmistakable buzz you get when the audience can sense that they are present at the start of something that is going to be
huge
. It feels like a classic ‘I was there’ moment. An ‘I saw The Beatles at The Cavern’ kind of moment. These moments are rare. The unexpected thrill of it sobers me up in a flash.

There’s something so magnetic about the lead singer of The Flood. His presence seems to swallow all the air up in the room. As I scan the audience, I note that practically every pair of eyes in the room is fixed on him. Beneath the overlong hair, the overdone eyeliner, he’s actually pretty fucking attractive. But then most frontmen are. It’s the peacock in them. They love to strut their stuff. They love the rampant eye fucking that goes with the job.

This guy clearly has all the usual charisma in spades, but there’s something more. He’s a bad boy all right, but a bad boy with issues. There’s a subtle fragility hidden behind the overdone mask of his performance. I have a good nose for things like this and I can just sense this guy is trouble. It’s always the tortured ones that end up giving you the most grief. They are the ones who end up breaking your heart.

My chest constricts as the image of Jamie pops into my head, unbidden. I need another drink, a really fucking strong drink. For a split second I think about leaving, kicking off my killer heels and running for the tube, I think about sitting in the acid white light of Bar Scala drinking our favourite grappa, drinking to him, alone. Other uninvited memories run through my head. His tremorous touch. His achingly lost eyes the last time I saw him. The black body bag being stretchered out of his apartment on the news. A long suppressed panic prickles at me.
I can’t do this
, I think. And then the music slows, and the singer’s haunting
voice cuts through it all. It’s beautiful. I’m rooted to the spot.

I’m a good head and shoulders above most of the other girls in these ridiculous skyscraper shoes, but I want to disappear. This song makes me feel so exposed. Like all songs that live long in the heart, it feels like this guy has literally reached into my soul and ripped the words right out of
me
. It’s about loss and losing the reason to breathe. The lyrics flow like ice in my veins.

…I watch you blaze

then watch you fade

And now you’re gone

I just can’t believe

There’s a reason to breathe

Or to carry on…

As the song swells, the singer’s eyes scan the crowd and meet mine. Oh. Fucking. No. He’s just a boy in a band. A boy in a band, that’s all. Business. A trip to the fucking Maldives, a down payment on a bigger, more beautiful apartment, for God’s sake! That’s all he is. Then why is every cell in my body defying me? Why is my mind screaming that he’s so much more? I am so fucked.

The small back room of The Vine acts as a makeshift dressing room. It’s cramped and hot and stinks of beer and sweat. The four guys and I are wedged in there. They’re all in various states of undress and inebriation. We’ve made our introductions. There’s Fran on lead guitar, Charley on Bass, Dex on drums. Blake, the lead singer, seems like a completely different guy from the one I just watched on stage. Quiet. Maybe even a little withdrawn. Gone is the cocky, brash presence that filled up the room. It still feels like there’s not enough air to breathe though.

“Holy Shit, really?” The drummer beams at me.

“Yes really. If you can put together a showcase for Denton, I’ll set up a meeting.”

“Alex fucking Denton! You’re not shitting with us?”

“No, I’m not. I really liked what I saw out there tonight. I think Denton will too.”

“This calls for some seriously crazy partying! You wanna help us celebrate?”

I shake my head laughing. Three of the guys are buzzing. They’re acting like they’ve won the lottery which they pretty much have if Dent gives them the nod.

The lead singer Blake is seated in front of a grimy sliver of mirror with his back to me. I catch a glimpse of his expression in the reflection, and it’s one of utter desolation, emptiness.

“You okay with this Blake?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine. Most of the black kohl that was lining his eyes has either sweated off or been wiped off. But his gaze is still dark and unreadable. It makes me uncomfortable. He doesn’t answer my question.

“Of course he’s okay with it.” Dex the drummer scoffs.

“What is there
not
to be okay with?” Fran the lead guitarist is sounding a little pissed off at the lead man’s lack of enthusiasm about my approach.

Alarm bells are going off in my head. These guys seem to be on the verge of imploding already. That’s before the pressures of recording or promotion or touring are even remotely on the horizon. My gut is telling me to walk away, but my heart is telling me otherwise. There’s something about this band and the beautiful, surly boy I can’t tear my eyes away from. I don’t want them to be one of my ‘what if’s’. I’ll take them as far as the showcase for Denton. Then I can always hand them over to one of my juniors if they sign.

I remind myself; these guys have only just moved to the City. Under the pressure of being thrown so closely together, in an unfamiliar environment, cracks are bound to show. If they decide to trust me, and I can trust myself, it will be my job to smooth these cracks over. To fix them. To make this band and its members fit for purpose.

All eyes are on Blake. He seems to retreat further into himself and then he stands up abruptly shrugging on his jacket.

“I need a smoke.”

He bursts past me and out of the door. The three other band members exchange exasperated looks.

Dex sighs heavily shaking his head and starts to head out after Blake. I block his exit.

“Let me talk to him.” I say.

These guys are clearly nervous. They exchange some more pointed looks. They’re worried he’s going to fuck this up for them. Humour is needed here to diffuse the situation, before there’s no band left to present to Denton.

“Look I’m used to dealing with pissy arsed divas all the time. Let me go massage his ego. See if I can win him over with my considerable charms.” I smirk saucily.