WISHING WELL:
Leaving the sanctuary of our Soho bolt-hole, smiling thinly at
the bloke wiping down his coffee machine, we headed back west,
up Oxford street, Marble Arch, past the Hyde Park railings I would
be drawn to covered in outsider art, Queens Way, Nottinghill Gate
Sheherd’s Bush & out to the Chiswick High Road for our first
appointment at Island Records.
(I’m telling you all this geographical stuff so anyone who know’s
the route can calculate the distance we’d covered since landing in
the City of Dreams).
A town house with a grand facade, a legendary label, the lobby
smelled warm, like coffee, walls lined four deep in Gold & silver.
Records we’d bought as kids, listened to in our bedrooms, sleeves
we’d analysed for hours, practising the poses, rehearsing the moves,
the interviews, the walk, the stance, the strum, imagining it how
would feel to be one of them, not us.
The Guru had walked here, taken free records home, gifted me one
that would change my life – John Martyn’s ‘Inside Out’, some of
the most exciting music of all time came out of here & now
we had arrived. Smell the leather, the chrome, the potted plant,
the polished wood, the girl behind reception.
Waiting to be called in we watched as flight cases rolled through
the door. Burning Spear & crew preparing to record, looking
proud & assured, carrying the sound of future history in their bones,
nodding to the girl on reception who flicked a smiled like she would
when it was us, smiling to recall the first time that she met us.
We climbed the stairs into an office in the sky, the A&R man, the man
with the key to everything, smiled, shook our hands, looked down at
his own. We sank into his 70’s leather & watched him thread our tape,
glancing at each other to see if we could spot concealing wires leading
to a covert recording device primed to rip our music for somebody else
to have a hit. Our tape box lay quaint & crumpled & damp on his desk
as he pressed ‘play’ & with Germanic assurance the Revox took command,
we settled back, mesmerised, dishevelled. He listened to every track,
something no A&R man would do if he didn’t like the music, we’d hit
gold on the first strike, knocked the door & it had been opened, no need
to knock again, we were heading home triumphant.
The last song finished, he reached out with practised ‘click’ & paused,
this was a beautiful moment & he was letting us savour it, the history
gathering about us – what a guy.
“Well lads, normally I would’ve stopped it half way through the first
track, but I could see you were both in such bad shape I felt sorry
for you. This isn’t very good, I’m not sure if you’ve got any more
that are different to this, but these aren’t doing it for me. I just
couldn’t turf you out into the rain without letting you have a rest,
you look like you need it badly. I’m sorry lads.”
(K)
Karl Hyde 