3-17-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #74 (“Shattered Dreams” not just for jazz-haters!)

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Daily Mail article on Calvin Hayes: Dire Straits for Scion of Pop Mogul

As beforesaid, the suspense was killing.  Mickie didn’t say anything while he listened.  His face was hard to read, and I held my breath for the entire three minutes Most listened to my cassette.

“Ah, this won’t sell,” he pronounced. I said I came to London to write songs and make records with a country music feel. “This Country music craze in London’s over, and your songs are too eclectic. I’m afraid they just aren’t up to snuff.”

Not a knife to my heart, exactly, but I wanted to blurt out, “Oh, but you’re wrong!  You’re not hearing it right. And besides, I have the talent to work as a staff writer at RAK and help co-write more of your hits!”  In that way, I wouldn’t mind being a musical “whore” at all, really. 

And I should have mentioned working with Glenn Tillbrook of Squeeze.  But I couldn’t think straight. I never can, on the spot.  So I write. . .

Instead, I said to the big man, “Well, thank you for taking the time to listen.  It’s good to meet you.”

“Well, darling, thanks much for coming over. Nice meeting you. Ta.”

Within the space of ten minutes, my meeting with the famous Mickie Most was done. Finished. Kaput. He handed my tape back to me, at least.

Calvin walked out of the great room back to the den with me. His face had a sorry look, but he didn’t say anything.  Maybe he was feeling as crushed as I was.  After all, it was HIS idea to come meet the old man and present my songs.  He was kind to try to help me, so I don’t fault him one bit for the lack of foresight of his father.

Calvin wound up dating Kim Wilde, a very successful Mickie Most artist whose song, “Kids in America” was a huge worldwide hit in the early ‘80’s.  He was also in a Brit “sophisti-pop” band in the mid ‘80’s who had a modicum of success as Johnny Hates Jazz.

In 2009, a story came out in the Daily Mail about Calvin, who’s not been doing too well of late. . . that link is above. 

3-16-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #73 (Tottering up to Totteridge, London, N20 - Pt. 3)

Of course I was nervous to meet Calvin’s dad, Mickie -- should I call him “Mister Most,” or “Mr. Hayes,” or just plain “Mickie”??  Was he on good terms with Mike Chapman and Nicky Chinn -- should I bring them up?

The door opened.  A medium-tall man with steely blue eyes and a headful of curly wild brown hair invited us in to the living/great room.

“I’m Mickie, Calvin’s dad.”  I could see Calvin wince out of the corner of my eye.

He extended his hand, shaking it briefly, then we talked a bit.

“I’m Lauren Agnelli. Thank you for taking the time to hear my songs,” I blurted out. “Your son says so much about you -- good things, I mean.”

“Yes, yes, Calvin’s getting his finger on the pulse -- like his old man.”  Mickie said without a smile.

“Um, back in the states, I was in a pop band, Nervus Rex, that Mike Chapman and Nicky Chinn signed to Dreamland Records.”

Mickie smiled. “Oh, working with Stiggie, aren’t they?  Or are they still?”  RSO Records head Robert Stigwood was “Stiggie,” and I wasn’t sure if that was a rhetorical question.  He didn’t seem particularly warm or interested -- I wondered if this was something that happened often, his young and naïve son bringing home musicians he’d met with potential to the paterfamilias.

Then Mickie asked for the tape with my songs.  Calvin handed him my cassette, which had some of my favorite self-written songs that had been recorded and mixed and bounced down in NYC before I came to London on a TEAC four-track and mixed with vocals, piano, and guitar. Although not perfect performances, I think there was a poignancy, a plangent quality, that anybody with a heart could hear.  I also thought they were pretty good songs, and showed promise as a writer. (Songs might have included “I Can’t Wait,” “When Old Proven Ties Don’t Work,” “Bandages”)

What I really wanted was a publishing, not a record, deal.  RAK publishing was one of the biggest in the world, and Mickie was its founder and head.

What the hey would he say?  Yay or nay?  The suspense was killing as he played the first song for about 30 seconds, then fast forwarded to the second track.  Mickie didn’t say anything while he listened.  His face was hard to read, and I held my breath for the entire time we listened to my songs and fast-forwarded through them. . . 

3-15-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #72 (Tottering up to Totteridge, London, N20 - Pt. 2)

So, as last described, I deigned to accompany Calvin Hayes, a young drummer, up to the paternal home, in scenic Totteridge.  The goal: meeting Mickie Most.

I’m not sure any ulterior motive other than meeting the famous producer happened, because in my head I knew the kind of music he produced (though I did love many of the songs from the sixties -- and later on, even -- including the Yardbirds, Suzi Quatro, Kim Wilde, and Alan Merrill’s Arrows (“I Love Rock & Roll”).  It seemed to me that the  of British music scene of late included some very, er, disposable stuff.  I wasn’t sure how you could characterize the music I was making, but it was more like “Mother Maybelle Meets Chrissie Hynde,” and I was a huge fan of Roseanne Cash’s “Seven Year Ache.” 

And, as you already know, Squeeze was my favorite band in 1981. And yes, I did love really tight 3-minute popsong gems and wasn’t beyond believing that they worked.

The day of the fateful Most meeting (born Michael Peter Hayes, he changed his name in 1959), I was wearing my black-tinted hair in a long shag style, a black pullover that had a dipping round neckline with a 4-inch ruffle, a modest-length 3-tiered skirt, navy with tiny white polkadots, and red cowboy boots with 2-inch heels.  All that was topped with a blue-black-red-green tartan shawl. That outfit may sound strange, but somehow it all conveyed, for me, the cute country punk rocker of my dreams.  I tried dressing the part, which was always fun (still is!).

The Most/Hayes homestead in Totteridge was impressive but not “over the top.” An appealing sense of moderation governed the successful producer’s family digs, so they didn’t live in any sort of McMansion yet (a concept and word that didn’t yet exist in 1981), but a comfortable, attractive, large house. Very upper middle class and not showy -- kind of perfect.  (This must have been before he built a “palatial home” in Totteridge, which sold for 20 million pounds in 2005 or so.)

(again, here's pics of me at the time -- I really was quite stylin' in my quirky fun country-punk rocker way)

So, we’d arrived at the house, made some tea in the kitchen, then Calvin and I settled in to a home office type room, adjacent to the living room (or great room), readying for the meeting.  What had Calvin said about me?  Had he played the songs for him already?  Was he receptive?  Would it matter? . . . 

3-14-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #71 (Tottering up to Totteridge, London, N20 - Pt. 1)

What a long way from Blackheath, SE3, to Totteridge, north London, N20 to be precise!  A few weeks after meeting Calvin Hayes and checking him out -- meeting with him a few other times, over tea, to be sure he was “legit” and not just a wanker trying to get into my knickers -- I deigned to accompany him up to the paternal home, in scenic Totteridge. 

Being the second-to-last stop on the black Northern line on the underground, it wasn’t a bad ride, actually, from where I was staying (nearest tube station was Tottenham Court Road) at Gervaise Soeurouge’s.  I had Calvin listen to some of my songs -- my demos on cassette -- and he seemed to like them all right. We talked a little bit about putting together a band. . . I don’t think I was really into it unless there was some kind of record deal because I KNEW that Mickie Most -- and Chapman and Chinn, for that matter -- were really into making music that was, er, to be diplomatic, disposable.

And as much as I want(ed) to be successful, I’d like my music to be perhaps more like the kind that’s got a healthy cult following for life -- not just some pop songs that are Shite and over and done with in a few weeks or months.  At any rate. . . so much for my philosophy on where I want to be (I’m almost there, almost there, almost there. . .).

I was pretty happy with the way that my songwriting was going, and sure that, with the right producer and treatment in the studio, my songs had merit.  They were sort of eclectic, pop/country/rock songs. . . not unlike Elvis Costello, Squeeze, or Kirsty MacColl. . .

And while in London I was really trying to figure out how to get me sold as a singer-songwriter, and how to sell my songs. That’s when I met this strange but sweet young guy, Calvin Hayes, in a crowded West End pub one night.  He was a drummer, and his dad had produced numerous hits in his day (he knew Chapman & Chinn, of course).  Calvin seemed innocent, young, kind of lonely, and very eager to be liked.

Within minutes of meeting him, he says, “My dad’s Mickie Most. . . I’ll get him to listen to your songs, awl roight?”

3-13-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #70 (Clubbing in the ‘80’s -- a pretty silly scene)

As I mentioned in previous blog, I spent time in London, being suspected of working as a prostitute (by a crazy imaginative geezer, Alfie) but in actuality just hitting some clubs, going to gigs, whatever I could do to meet new people and schmooze.  This was before the word “network” was popularly used, but that was the angle.  I’m going to hope that you believe me when I tell you that nightclubbing was a job, of sorts. I say that especially because I don’t like loud music, crowds of people, people acting stupid en masse (individually, it’s fine!), and standing around, drinking. But, it WAS part of the job of a pop musician, going out on the town when not playing gigs. Really!

But to my way of thinking, I mean, if you didn’t really have to go somewhere and you’re going to make a night of it, drinking and acting stupid, have a party at home!! 

(I’m very well suited to my current lifestyle as a homebody -- sitting here writing at night is really the most fun, to me -- and part time party giver, thank the Lord!  Circumstances dictate “potluck” nowadays, but it’s still cool.)

OK.  I realize that my NYC clubbing days before going to London were certainly interesting and not without incident, especially around closing time.  Because most people’s guards were down and their booze etc. consumption up, this was the most amusing time of the night. 

Here are a few highlights, leading up to London:

·      At Max’s Kansas City, sitting at a booth with Peter Gabriel & some other writers including my boyfriend at the time and us being too cool to acknowledge Gabriel;

·      At the Peppermint Lounge downtown, darting across the almost empty basement dance floor to the bathroom, being accosted by Richard Butler of the Psychedelic Furs, having him insult my “long face,” and then me whacking him with my hand out of anger;

·      At Hurrah’s, saying my goodbyes, shuffling towards the bathroom, almost being knocked over by Iggy Pop and two girls on either side of him, propping him up;

·      At the uptown Peppermint Lounge, meeting Doug Fieger of The Knack, finding him basically insufferable -- THEN meeting this twerpy girl, Sharona, who was Fieger’s “inspiration” for “My Sharona.”  She was convinced that she’d made it big by being the subject of a pop song, and talked loudly about the various offers she was fielding -- from made-for-TV movies to tell-all biography books.  I didn’t mean to be cruel, but inside I was snickering away, cynical of the attention she was getting, knowing that song would soon be off the charts, leaving her and The Knack thoroughly knackered. .  .

And I’d say, “Look, there’s more!” but really, that’s just gilding the lily, isn’t it?  I was only really happy going out if I had a job to do (like playing a show); other than that, I felt I was wasting time.  OK, if I really loved the music or the people playing, I’d have a good time, too.  I dance to the music unabashedly, jump around and just have a great time -- when the music moves me.

And, of course, as a rock writer, it was fun to know my thoughts and opinions counted -- as I was being paid to write a review of whatever show I’d been sent to cover.  THAT wasn’t a waste of time, certainly -- it was using to good advantage that old Dr. Johnson adage:  “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.”

Somehow, I never tried to break into writing in London.  Strange, isn’t it?  Now I ponder how life would have been different had I pursued writing things other than long letters and dozens of pop/country/rock songs. . .

And while in London I was really trying to figure out how to get me sold as a singer-songwriter, and how to sell my songs. That’s when I met this strange but sweet young guy, Calvin Hayes, in a crowded West End pub one night.  He was a drummer, and his dad had produced numerous hits in his day (he knew Chapman & Chinn, of course).  Calvin seemed innocent, young, kind of lonely, and very eager to be liked.

Within minutes of meeting him, he says, “My dad’s Mickie Most. . . I’ll get him to listen to your songs, awl roight?”