Sound Mixers , livre ebook

Title Page
THE SOUND MIXERS

by
Eric Scott



Publisher Information
Published in 2013 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of Eric Scott to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2013 Eric Scott
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.



PART ONE
It was 1972 in Melbourne Australia and the world of pop was humming. The superstar had been born and fortunes were being made. Everyone was chasing a slice of the action, including Wayne Zemmerman. Wayne however was still awaiting a bigger piece of the musical pie and the phone call he was taking at that moment was not helping.
“Bastards,” he muttered angrily to himself as he slammed down the phone. “You’ve got to be a Jew or a poof to survive in this business.” He was, however unaware that the day was going to bring change that even his vivid imagination could not imagine,
His faded blue eyes blazed angrily and his pale face was tinged pink. It was the third time in twenty minutes that he had tried to get a booking for his new act, teenage singer Joni Lawrence.
Zemmerman, White Anglo Saxon Protestant of Dutch descent and born in England, was in Show Business. Not the glamour side of lights, music and applause, but the sweat and swindle side. He was a promoter, an agent, a manager, a public relations man, anything in fact that might bring in a few dollars to eke out his precarious existence.
He sat in a black, plastic swivel chair, behind a vinyl-veneered desk. Three telephones, one red, two white sat on the desk, giving bright promise of riches to come. Two worked, the other was for effect.
So was the look of the rest of the room. Cork tiled walls were covered with fresh-looking press cuttings and photographs of artists, some famous, some unknown. The scarlet carpet was new and impressive. In twelve months however it was likely to fade into shabbiness.
Wayne had known that when he had it installed, but it didn’t worry him, for in twelve months he expected to be rich. He intended to be one of the men to make it big in the year ahead. One of the few in Australia, a land filled with show business hangers on, sharing the meagre crusts that filtered through their twilight world, existing but never succeeding, who was going to make it.
It was this constant expectation of sudden riches that kept him on the alert, looking for the elusive break. It was false optimism, like most other things in the tarnished glitter scene.
The one thing about Wayne that was real and of quality was his suit. It was a grey woollen Versace suit and was part of the trappings he considered necessary for success. The suit had been acquired from a wholesaler at cost, in part payment of a fee for a public relations promotion six months earlier.
In four years Wayne had climbed a little higher up the ladder than many of the other fast buck chasers. So far he had failed to make a big killing, but with some clever handling of a minor male singer he had managed to keep ahead of the debts. It was this, plus the manipulation of his books, that gave him just a little more money to spend than he actually earned.
There was no little trick or job that Wayne would not try.
In the shady world of small time management and agents Wayne was looked on as being honest. One who paid the artists he booked, but in his business honesty was a matter of degree.
His telephone buzzed and he snatched up the red receiver.
“Hello,” he said.
“Wayne, are you in?” It was Kathy Baker, his inexpensive secretary/receptionist, switchboard girl, and sometimes girlfriend. “It’s the lead singer of that four-piece Italian group you picked up last week.”
“What? Oh, yes OK put him on.” He paused while the outside line was switched through.
“G’dday Tino, what’s new?
Oh yes. Sure. I’m working on a campaign now. I’ve got a few guys who are really interested. As soon as I can I’ll book in for a real photographic session. It’ll cost a few quid, but it will be worth it in the long run. You have to have professional photos for the publicity and for display outside the venues you work.
“Yes, it looks good, makes them think you’re full time professionals. You don’t have to worry about the money either. I’ll take it out of jobs I get you. I’m not a rip-off merchant.
“The recording companies are sniffing too. Now listen, what we have to do is get down to the studio and make a demo tape. Yes. That’s right. Then we can really show them what we can do. I reckon there’s big money for you boys ahead.
“Hang on a minute Tino.”
One of the white telephones was ringing.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Elstons,” said Kathy. “They want a band for Saturday.”
“Put ‘em on,” said Wayne. “Hey Tino, just hang in there will you, I might have something.”
He set the white phone on the desk and concentrated on the other.
“G’dday there Mal,” said Wayne, smiling unseen to the man on the other end. “What can I do for you? Who? Oh, I doubt it, they’re out of town on a country tour, but I can give you a band just as good and a damn sight cheaper.
“No, they’re not Greeks straight off the boats. They’re a young bunch of damn good musicians. They all read too. What? Give us a go mate; they’ve done mostly school gigs. A good pub job like this is just what they need. I’ll tell you Mal, you take ‘em tonight, and you’ll be offering double to get them back next week.
“Yes they are that good. Have I ever sold you a bad one? Well? Right, so you know you can trust me.
“Okay. They’re called Fantails and you can have them for $600 for the night. What? Come on, I’ve already saved you double that and I’ll guarantee they’ll play right through, including backing for the cabaret.”
“Okay, just for you $500 for the night. The con tract will be on the way tonight. Usual payment, right on to me. What do you mean? I am their bloody manager you know.”
He listened for a second and laughed.
“You should worry, at an extra three cents a glass for the booze after 10, and you’ll do all right. These boys will keep the mugs in for the supper session.
“Okay then Mal, see you. Cheers.”
He put the phone down and picked up the red one.
“Hey Tino, you still there? Good. Listen I’ve got a job for you Saturday night. Yep. A pub job. See I told you I know the business. Yep, it’s $400 for the night, that’s eighty bucks a piece, minus my twenty per cent of course, not bad is it? Beats the jobs you were getting before I came along, eh?
Oh, by the way, on Saturday you’re called Fantails. Romanticas is too ethnic. Sounds Italian. I know you’re Italian, but on Saturday you rock it up and you’re called Fantails. Save Romanticas for Italian weddings. Do you want the job or don’t you? “Okay then, just leave things to me and don’t worry. I won’t tell you to do something that’s not right. Rehearse the rock stuff all week and the job’s at the Elston. Oh... you boys can read charts can’t you? That’s good, because you’re backing the cabaret act too. Right then. Kill ‘em and you’ll be up to $500 a gig in no time.”
He put the phone down and sighed. There was $100 earned for the next week, things were looking better. He picked up a pen and filled in one of the blank spaces on his booking chart, as he did so he noticed that the next couple of months were looking pretty good. He checked again.
Most of his own bands- he handled five, three under ‘personal management’, which meant twenty-five per cent commission and an extra five for ‘promotion.’
His pride and joy, male pop singer Johnny Russell, despite three records that had flopped and a cancelled recording con tract, was booked out every Saturday night for eight weeks, with several mid week jobs too.
All he had to do to make a reasonable profit was to get Joni Lawrence some work.
Joni was seventeen years old. Wayne had picked her raw talent when she had appeared on a television talent show. He liked her, talked to her and she had signed a contract just before a big-time agent had rung her, one who might have helped her a lot more than Wayne.
In his typical optimism through the constant battle to get on equal terms with the big money men, he held high hopes for both Johnny and Joni, although he admitted to himself that he was losing interest in Russell. This was something that normally happened when a new girl came along. He found it a hell of a lot more fun taking a girl along to do a show than he did a man.
He totted up the figures again. They were pleasing.
But the smile on his face faded to be replaced by a frown as he realised his ‘good’ figures were still so small time. Everything he did was small time and he desperately wanted to put himself into the headlines and the big league.
He dreamed of bringing to Australia an international superstar, for he knew that it was the only way to make the big money he needed to fulfil his real ambitions.
He leaned back in his chair, feet on the desk, staring at the ceiling.
With a hundred thousand dollars in his pocket he could make a real splash. With that sort of capital he wouldn’t have to go wheedling and crawling to the big record companies in search of a contract for his artists.
Nor would he have to resort to making records in cheap recording studios that were only fit for demonstration tapes, when th