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Edward Lander
Sustain
HE ARRANGED to meet the guy in a café off the high street. John looked for anyone with an expectant glance.
Minutes later a tall, bulky man in a zipped cardigan and branded jeans came over with a mug of coffee.
“You John?” he said. “Steve. Nice to meet you.”
He glanced at the notebook and pen John had brought with him.
“First off,” he said, leaning forward with his fingertips touching the glass surface of the table. “Your music.”
“Not for you?” said John.
“No,” he said. “I like it.”
John noticed the hesitation in his voice.
“Thing is, we only take on fully fledged artists.”
John tried to ensure that he was still grinning. He checked that his cup was raised in sync with Steve.
“That doesn’t mean that our business model won’t change,” said Steve. “And you could be what we’re looking for.”
It was the furthest he had got from imagined applause in his bedroom. In Steve of Stevie Steve Sounds, John had found a listener. Someone with experience and a roster of artists shot by professional photographers.
“For the moment, though, I see you as more of a creative director. Normally we get people to do a bit of secretarial work and shadow one of our agents for a while. With your experience you can be out there straight away.”
“As long as you think I’m ready.”
“It’s just getting through to the music supervisors,” he said. “Once they know you and like you, you’re in. They might be chatting to a friend and say, actually I know where I can find a track for that.”
He stopped to take another sip of coffee, using a napkin to wipe the foam from his mouth. “You get a film under your belt. That’s it. They’ll all want you. Got it?”
Steve crashed his cup onto the glass. The background chatter had paused and everyone was looking at them. Steve grinned. “Music can do that to people. That’s the industry we’re in.”
John pivoted to the back of his chair and snapped forward. He held his hands together to limit his movements. But his fingers continued to twist and twitch through each other.
“You’re offering me the job?”
“I don’t like all the back and forth of it,” he said. “If someone’s right for it, you know straight away.” He scratched at his elbow.
John turned the front page of his notebook over to hide all the notes he had prepared for the meeting.
“Bet you’re thinking about the parties already, aren’t you?” Steve said. “There’s plenty of that.”
When he had finished his coffee, Steve got up to leave. “Let’s talk again soon,” he said.
#
John waited a week to call Steve. He left a few messages. On the Thursday, John tried again. Steve picked up this time.
“Steve? It’s John.”
There was silence at the other end.
“We met just before Christmas about the job,” said John.
“Right,” he said. “Yeah, I remember now.”
“We were going to meet up.”
“Sure. Give me a couple of days and I’ll get back with a venue and time.”
#
The café where they had arranged to meet was shut. Most of the other businesses on the street had been boarded up or lay empty with white paint on the windows.
“Shall we try this one,” said Steve. It was a makeshift coffee shop that seemed to have got its supplies from supermarkets.
“We don’t take card,” said the manager.
“It’s alright,” said John. “I’ll get them – what do you want?”
“You sure?” said Steve. “Thanks.”
They took the table furthest from the counter. A group of women came in soon after and sat just behind them.
John took out his notebook and wrote down whatever Steve said.
“Want to know the biggest selling market for music,” said Steve.
“Eighteen to twenty-four year olds?”
“No,” he said. “It’s all technology and computer games for them.”
John stared up at the speaker nailed into the wall.
“Housewives,” said Steve.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You know. They’re at home watching all the TV shows, the radios selling to them all day. And they’re the ones doing all the shopping. That’s the market we want to aim for.”
Steve told John how contracts worked and who he needed to befriend. “You get a song on the TV that’s a thousand quid. But a song on film, a big film – that could pay for an office and a secretary.”
“I thought you’ve got a studio around here already,” said John.
“Closed down,” said Steve. “That’s the way things are going. It’s all bedrooms and laptops these days.”
John stopped writing.
“We’ll get there by the summer, I reckon,” he said. “All it takes is one big contract and that could cover us for six months to a year. With you on board it’s not going to be very long at all.”
“Here’s to the new place,” said John.
Steve laughed. “You’re going to be good at this,” he said. “I can just tell.”
The group of women at the table behind were getting louder.
John was just thinking about the studio. The one reason he had wanted to work at Stevie Steve’s. If he proved himself maybe Steve would have recorded his music, given him a listing on the books.
“Yeah,” said Steve. “We put a load of money behind this singer songwriter. His was the first song we got contracted. Played him on TV.”
“Sounds impressive.”
“Yeah. I’m trying to think where they put it. We’re talking a few years ago now.” The radio had been turned off and a crackling sound came through the speakers. “Oh yeah that was it. The Nascar Racing.”
“You must’ve had loads of TV work off the back of that,” said John.
“That was the last one.” He leaned forward. “Stevie’s has been going through lots of changes. But that’s going to be our focus going forward.”
Steve spilled his coffee and the manager came over with a cloth.
“Be careful of the carpets,” he said. “The carpets are new.”
“Come on, mate,” said Steve. “You could have got them from my gran’s house.”
“New cleaned,” he said. “Anyway, I’m closing. Now.”
John turned round. Just a pile of cups where the women had been sitting.
“It’s two o’clock, mate,” said Steve.
“We close early today.”
They headed to the pub across the road. Steve walked straight to a seating area out of sight from the bar and kept on talking.
“Shouldn’t we get a drink,” said John.
“Yeah,” he said. “Course. You’re right. Beer?”
“I’m detoxing,” said John. “I’ll have a coke, please.”
“Very good,” said Steve. “I should ease off at some point.”
Steve found some money to buy the drinks and they went over to the sofas. “This is the latest one.” He showed John a photo of a girl leaning over a keyboard with pale, over accentuated make-up. “Really good. Different,” he said. “Works in a call centre in Scotland during the day. You’d like her.”
“Cool.”
“Xian found her,” said Steve. “He’s been doing your job until now. Great guy. Really quiet though. We’re complete opposites. I think that’s why it works. He’s into all this meditation – tried to get me on board with it.” He drank three fingers of beer in one mouthful. “I’m more of a pop a pill and go to the gym kind of guy. It’s whatever works for you though isn’t it?”
John wondered what it would be like to be part of the group of lads that had just walked past them on their way to the conservatory area. Slapping and insulting and drinking and laughing. He looked at the framed photo on the wall. It was a shot of Roger Bannister breaking the four minute mile.
“Yeah,” said Steve. “Xian’s going to be working more closely with me on the strategy side now you’re with us.
“It’d be good to meet him some time too.”
“He’s gone back up North somewhere. I’ve not spoken to him for a while. You can work from anywhere with this job.”
John bit into the ice cubes in his drink. He moved them around his gums with his tongue.
“So long as it pays,” said John.
“Pay is whatever you earn,” said Steve. “Hey, I don’t get to do this all the time. Most days I’m helping my friend, doing a bit of building work. Then I’m on the phone, looking for acts.”
“I was only looking for a paid role – with a regular income.”
“Well we’re talking commission at first,” he said. “What we’re looking at, let’s see. A standard music publisher would pay its agents, a commission of, say, fifteen.”
“Percent.”
“Percent, yes, fifteen percent.” He got his calculator out and scrawled a figure on a piece of paper. “But I’m willing to pay you twenty percent.”
“Sounds like a lot of work just to get a foot in,” said John. “I’d need that time for my music.”
“You can join our roster,” he said. “Promote your stuff through us.”
“You said it wasn’t there yet.”
“When it’s ready, yeah. Look as long as it gets taken up, I don’t care. Go for it. We’re flexible here.”
A contract was placed in front of him. Steve had scrawled over the original commission figure.
“So I get to spend all my days, evenings and weekends pestering producers and radio networks on the off chance of selling knock-off artists to the uninterested.”
“It’s not meant to be easy, John.”
“And say if I do beat your record,” he said. “Say if I get a matinee slot. We might make about a grand.”
“The company, yes.”
“So twenty percent of a grand – £200 for something that could take weeks of work. And you’ll get the rest for doing nothing.”
“We’ll take care of your paperwork. And you’ll have a recognised brand behind you.” Steve finished the rest of his pint. “A year from now, we’ll have signed our first feature and be sitting in Cannes forgetting this conversation ever took place.”
Steve carried on talking about his roster and how John could work as many hours as he wanted.
“I’ve never met anyone as suited to this job as you.”
“I was just looking at that photo,” said John.
“Oh yeah, it’s him,” said Steve. “What’s his name – 10,000 metres. Current world record holder.”
“That’s Roger Bannister,” said John. “He broke the four minute mile.”
“No it’s not,” he said. “This guy was in the last Olympics. Fastest over 5,000.”
“It’s a very old photo. Ifley Road. Oxford.”
“Anyway,” said Steve. “I’ll send a contract through this evening and we’ll get you started as soon as.”
“Look, I need an income.”
“Even if it’s just a couple of hours a day you can give,” he said. “A few phone calls in the evening, that kind of thing.”
“One hour is too much.”
“Alright, that’s sorted then. I’ll get that sent through, you think it over and we’ll talk in a few days.”
“You can send it through if you like. But I don’t think it’s for me.”
John got up and put his coat on. Steve walked him to the corner, talking about his meeting the following day. The latest new signing at Stevie Steve’s. They shook hands and Steve went over to a car where an older woman sat reading a magazine. John watched them drive off and walked up the High Street. In the window of a shop selling drum kits, guitars and sheet music, he saw a flyer for an artist development programme. “We can develop your identity and get you talking to the most influential people in the music industry.” John wrote down the details on a receipt.
Edward Lander is a freelance journalist and writer, who lives in the south of England with his wife and two children. He has written for The Guardian, Total Guitar, Jazzwise, Songlines and a number of business publications. He also enjoys writing song lyrics and composing music.