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ONE or two of us are getting worried. It's not that we don't appreciate everything the record companies do to sell our records. We're very grateful The pluggers, the men who run around the countryside with their cars packed with discs, off-loading them at shops, the guys in the shops who put our pictures in their windows - even though they may hate us! All doing a job. Thanks, fellas! But now . . . ! What's got us worried is this latest stunt someone's come up with. (Well, they came up with it some time ago; seem to have gone down with it; and are now surfacing again.) The idea is to sell movies that people can run in their own homes, and actually SEE and hear us singing the stuff. Think of it! No longer can we rely on people just putting on a record, leaning back and letting the music flow over them, if they wish. Or dancing to a tune and beat they like - if the disc warrants it. No longer can we trust people just to be content to gaze at a still photo, glossy pin-up on the wall. No! NOW they're actually going to SEE us doing the number. And the thought's somewhat alarming! I mean - have you ever been in a studio when someone's making a record? No? Well, don't! What usually happens is they fix the session at some ridiculous hour of the morning, on a day following a concert you've been doing 500 miles away. "You'll be able," they explain airily, "to drive down overnight." Five of you, plus road manager, plus instruments, plus amplifiers, plus stage clothes, plus personal luggage, plus a packet of sandwiches. Wedged tight  Herman's a great animal lover. Here he is with a 'friend'. |
through the night, beating down the motorways to arrive unslept, unfed, unshaved, un-if-you-must-know concious of who we are, where we are, why we are and even if we really are. The dialogue in the studio goes something like this: Recording manager: Hullo, fellas, you're late. Us: Uh? Recording manager: Well, come along then, get set up. Rhythm guitar: Where's my guitar? Recording manager: Come along, don't mess about, we've got to get out of here by 12. Lead singer: What are we singing? Drummer: Do you think I have time for - Recording manager: No! Come along, we haven't got all day. Bass guitar: Anyone got a cigarette? Recording manager: Just go through it once for level. All: What number are we doing? Rhythm guitar: I think I left my stage shoes in that dressingroom. Recording manager: For heavens sake stop chattering, how can I get a balance. Right! Here we go. Nice and soulful, remember. Rhythm guitar: I'm sure I left my shoes . . . Recording manager: Q-U-I-E-T! Five worried men kick the number off. Although they've worked it on stage for weeks before, today it seems like they've never heard it before. Also, the bass guitarist is dying for a cigarette, the rhythm guitarist is worried about his shoes, the singer can't for the life of him remember the words, the lead guitar is convinced someone must have glued his fingers together, and the drummer hopes all this is just a dream! Recording manager: Cut, cut, cut! This is ridiculous! You sound as if you were half asleep. Bass guitar: He's joking, of course. Recording manager: Now! Once again. And remember - plenty of soul . . . Three hours later, the red light goes out - for the last time. You sag against studio walls. Beards have grown a little longer, faces a little more haggard. The Recording Manager comes out of his little glass box. "Fellas! That was great! And the crazy thing is - a few weeks later, you find you've got a hit! Don't ask us how we did it. But for heaven's sake, don't FILM us while we're doing it! |
