3-22-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #79 (“I Don’t Want to Go to Chelsea”)

After a dismal night pulling pints in a pub, I was wandering ‘round the King’s Road in an effort to find “better fit” employment under the table in 1981 (had to support myself as well as find somewhere to “belong” so I could save my sinking psyche), I walked into a winebar called Blushes.  It looked nice, the menu was good, and the ambiance was one of controlled gentility, perfect for social-climbers and arrivistes alike. 

A recent review of the place (still going in 2012!) says, “During the day, Blushes Cafe is a cool cafe bar boasting a comfortable, relaxed atmosphere and tasty cuisine of all types from around the world. However, the atmosphere changes after dark at Blushes and it transforms into a vibrant, upbeat wine bar with a fantastic selection of cocktails, champagne and wines to get you in the mood for a night out on the town.”

Ah yes, all about the nightlife!  That’s where the inhibitions recede and there’s money to be made!  Every restaurateur knows that. . . as do the waitstaff, who make much better tips on the larger checks created by booze intake.  Yeah!

So I had a feeling about the place, and they had a feeling about me, so they sent me over to their “members club” establishment, across the road and down the stairs.  Voila!  The subterranean home of Main Squeeze -- a “members club” where membership afforded better and longer hours for alcohol selling and consumption than the laws that governed pubs and publicans.  Members could bring guests, so in that way more customers were billed and the Main Squeeze remained in the black.

So, the Blushes manager sent me over to speak with one of the owners, Kevin or Roger (“Kev” and “Rog,” of course).  They were usually together.  Kevin, the taller one, had a soft, caressing voice, soft brown eyes, a full head of med-short, curly salt and pepper hair and a sweet, almost lugubrious manner.  He could have been a kindly undertaker but for his clothing -- middle-aged, upper-middle income, not flashy and casual. Roger, the shorter owner, had sharper features, a sharper voice, a brasher personality.  His electric blue eyes didn’t miss a thing; he wore dark suits, usually navy blue; and his full head of brown, curly hair was probably a vain spot.  Like Kev, Rog enjoyed a drink; the two of them -- most times I saw them -- seemed kind of blurry and woozy from drink, though I could have been mistaken. . . I was a little puritanical and down on boozers and drank very little, personally. 

At any rate, these guys were to be my bosses for the better part of a year, when I joined the Main Squeeze staff.

3-21-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #78 (Pulling Pints in the Pub)

November 5, 1981: Guy Fawkes Day in London.  Bonfires at night and “A Penny for the Guy.”  Kind of like trick-or-treating, but not as sweet -- that is, it’s not a candy holiday like in the U.S.  It’s just a remembrance of civil disobedience where kids ask for small change and burn “the Guy” in effigy annually (his eternal reward for trying to blow up The House of Lords).  So English!!

Ahh, so.  My first non-music job in London was “pulling pints” at a pub on the King’s Road in Chelsea.  I was right chuffed (quite pleased) at getting a job so easily (relatively) and quite relieved to not have penury be the wolf at the door.

I got there for work and squeezed into a space behind a bar that took some maneuvering, even for a size two person (me at the time).  And as it was Guy Fawkes night, even though just a Thursday, the place was VERY packed.  It seemed to get busier and busier, and the place filled up with boisterous, no, make that obstreperous young people, mostly the kind of obnoxious type. 

Worst of all:  I could NOT understand what about 80 percent of the customers were saying!  It was like I was underwater and in the land of big fish, making weird indecipherable noises like “Mmpph!!  Errrrgh!  Roff-roff-ROARFF -- roight NOWWWW!” 

Welcome to true culture shock.  When faced with a crowd of yobbos who had very thick and diverse British accents (Geordies, Mancunians, guys from the Humberside, Liverpuddlians, Cockneys, you name it!), I was a fish out of water and then some.  They wound up barking at me and lobbing insults; I kept going, “Eh?  Pardon.  Eh?  Pardon. . . “ But I just couldn’t get it.  I was also unfamiliar with the many types of beer because I really don’t drink it.

Once the shift was done, I don’t recall if I quit or was fired.  (Just for the record, I generally try to quit before I’m fired, as a rule.)  But it was most definitely NOT the job for me.  Besides, the Brits don’t tip much at the pub and the money was disgraceful. . .

A few days later, I returned to the King’s Road to find employment at a place that might be a better fit.  I walked into a winebar called Blushes, and spoke to the manager there, another nigh-incomprehensible speaker of the mother tongue but a sharp guy, perceptive enough to see I’d be a good worker in the right environment.

“Look, luv, we have a member’s club across the way and if you go there now, you could speak to Roger or Kevin. . . “

3-20-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #77 (Back to London, 1981)

Bshzoop!  Back to London, 1981.  Well, it was the best of times and the worst of times.  (Thank you, Charles Dickens -- a Londoner.)  Temporarily, I was catsitting and staying at the flat of the petite powerhouse of photography and networking, fellow expat Gervaise Souerouge, near Tottenham Court Road.  I was a fan and devotee of the invaluable street guide, London A-Z, part of the “knowledge” of those amazing London cab drivers.

Believe me, without a London A-Z, you couldn’t really get around the town very well.  In fact, I still have it here and look forward to (maybe) visiting ol’ London towne again.  But then again, I tend to shun big cities these days. . . I dig the boondocks, the quiet, the occasional people & plentiful nature. . .

Anyhoo, in 1981, London was starting to gear up from being a sleepy town to something TOO big, fast, crowded, and cosmopolitan.  But, being a New Yorker (from Manhattan), London was quite manageable at the time for me, thank you.

The unmanageable in my life was my physical and mental health.  I’d been a vegetarian (no red meat, very little chicken, mostly fish, cheese, eggs) since the age of 15, and it was starting to wear on me.  I was also plunging into a sadness I couldn’t shake off. . . I think we (at least I) take it for granted when surrounded by loving family & friends. . . even though they may seem like a hassle every now and then when sharing our space, they really do help to keep us together.

So. . . I’d get to crying often for little reason, feeling very tired & taking naps every day, invariably. . . my appetite was OK, but I felt scared and lonely and tired of life.  Every time I thought I’d scored a victory in life, something dire or dismal (like having Mickie Most tell me I didn’t have a career in music!) would happen to SMASH me and my mood down again.

I even tried taking up tap dancing (how can you be depressed tapping?), but that didn’t really work out (your foot reflexes need to be quite keen, you know -- and being in my mid twenties was a tad late to start if I couldn’t commit hours to practice). 

I knew I needed to work -- for my pocketbook, peace of mind, and sanity -- but how and where to get “clean” work off the books? 

During one of my weekend visits (or “haunts”) down the King’s Road in Chelsea (take the tube to Sloan Square and start walking!), I started to think about the many bars and eateries there. 

I inquired in a few places, then bingo!  One of them -- a trendy pub in the middle of the King’s Road -- took me on to be “pulling pints” that very night (Guy Fawkes night, Nov. 5^th).  Cool, I thought. . . just the thing to bring up spirits and replenish the pocketbook. . .

3-19-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #76 (Flash forward for Lisa Millar -- My last not-good job review. . .)

For Lisa Millar . . . 

(Me in typical work mode -- at a desk)

All right, I know my last entry in the blog was sequential -- at least, chronological -- but as time and space are arbitrary on the page and as a creative person I can do anything now I choose. . . I choose to flash forward twenty years, from 1981.

It’s 2001, and I’m working at a pretty rough desk job -- as the “admin” (administrative assistant) for an entire media planning department at Ogilvy & Mather in NYC.  Only, the company has now split into a new company called “Mindshare” and if truth be told I’d call it “Mindf**k” for reasons that shall become obvious.

I started the job as a temp in late 1999, filling the proverbial shoes of my longstanding predecessor (was there eight years?), who worked as the assistant to Beth LeMasurier, a high-up VP at Ogilvy & Mather in Media Planning.  The department worked the American Express account -- not in creative, but in planning what kind and where the media advertising money would be spent. 

If you’re a Mad Men fan, it’s the job that Harry kind of invented for himself.  But he saw a place for it in TV advertising (wasn’t Joan great at figuring out ad placement during Days of Our Lives??).  The O&M Media Planning dept. we worked for did TV, radio, and print media.  I believe we had approx. 25 people in the Amex account dept.  (Next door to us were the IBM account media planners, who kind of stuck their noses up at us, maybe out of flawed personality rather than philosophical differences.)

So.  My boss, Beth, was considered brilliant but eccentric.  Her commodious office was crammed with clutter, and you couldn’t really see the surface of her desk or any other surface, for that matter.  She wasn’t communicative in the least, and instead of calling me in to her office for a face to face or to update me on the work, I’d get piles of stuff with cryptic postit notes -- or emails.

The second-in-command or the VP under Beth, Nancy Tortorella (“torture-ella” I thought of her as), was a very snobby, self-righteous, double-talking bitch.  There, I said it.  If she reads this, fine.  Every time I am on the Metro North train and go through Darien (where she lived in 2001), I call it “de rien” or “Derrieren.”

Nancy T. and I did not get on famously.  At first, things were all right & she seemed to be nice enough, but after a few months, there was no love lost.  I hated her false laughter and her attitude of “Snap to it -- make it right, right NOW!”  So what if you were asked to do something one way one day, and then the following week had to do a total 180.  And don’t you dare ask any questions.

Eighteen months into my job, I finally got a review.  My understanding when I took the job was that reviews came regularly and with a raise in salary.  So as time went by, I pushed and pushed until they deigned to review me.  That wasn’t my first -- or last -- mistake.  My first mistake was taking the job. . .

Anyway, one tepid August morning when most of the staff were out on vacation or at a meeting (interminable meetings in that office!), I was called in to Nancy’s office for my review. 

If I’m feeling brave someday, I’ll fetch that foul piece of paper and try to refrain from burning it and laughing, fiendishly.

My favorite quote from the review went something like “uses too many exclamation points in emails.” As a result, I was being put on notice for 30 days!!  My performance was deemed sub-par on account of my uncommunicative boss who wasn’t happy with the way I carried out her cryptic commands.  My under-boss, NT, didn’t like me at all (Darien snob!!). 

Well, rather than crying at my computer, I emailed a friend who was in a pop band with me, Ken Anderson. He and his wife, Rebecca Hall, worked at the United Nations.  He had often nudged me, “Come on, work at the U.N. with us!”  I emailed him to say, “I’m ready to work at the U.N. with you.”

A month later -- when my second and probably terminal review was slated to occur -- was the morning of September 11, 2011.  Fifteen minutes in to work, everybody was corralled up to the reception area with the two big screen TVs and we watched the World Trade Towers being struck by planes in instant replays and I swore I saw people jumping out of the buildings.  Horrible, horrible.

The people at American Express were down at the World Financial Center, which was of course evacuated.  For many months, they were in flux and my department hardly knew which end was up.  My follow-up performance review never happened -- was swept under the table, so to speak.

. . . Of course I found a job at the U.N. and by that December, gave my notice.  There was no love lost -- and I have to thank a terrible tragedy for delaying a certain humiliating final review. . .

So, Lisa, that’s my horror story for you, another possible (but hopefully not) victim of a toxic working environment!

3-18-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #75 (“(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes” -- Oh Yeah!)

(young Elvis Costello wearing some RED!!)

The autumn of 1981 in London meant a new season for many.  So, of course, the art crowd was having its new season too.  I was invited along to an art gallery opening -- somewhere hip, in London -- but I do recall it was a nice “lig,” with free food and drink. Of course, living on very limited means and wanting to win friends and influence people, I was there. 

Also on hand were my Squeeze pals, Glenn Tillbrook, Chris Difford, and probably John Bentley.  Best of all, I got to hang a bit with the affable Elvis Costello and his then-wife, Mary.  They -- and I -- proudly sported our red cowboy boots.  I kept thinking of the Elvis Costello song, “(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes.”  I wondered if they were the SAME red shoes that he and she were wearing.  For myself, I just liked the novelty of red shoes in high heeled cowboy boot form, and thought they looked cute with puffy tiered skirts above the knees. I guess it was one of those ‘80’s trends or aberrations, bright red footwear.

Elvis as I recall was laughing and drinking a lot, and Mary, his wife, seemed nervous -- but seemed really warm and kind to me.  Earlier in 1981, I was balancing my armpits on crutches that I padded for comfort, watching from the wings of the stage at the NY Palladium, enjoying a spirited Squeeze/Elvis Costello concert with my right leg in a full leg cast.  I reminded Elvis of that and how he and his band signed the cast for me, and he laughed and said he certainly hoped my leg had healed. A real nice guy, that Elvis.

I wish I could recall more about the art at this opening party -- but as I hadn’t the means to buy anything and was so involved with the socializing aspect, I can’t remember it. Well, I could say they were generous to provide refreshments for a whole lot of liggers, the likes of us musicians and whatnot.

I am sure there was press there, snapping pictures and getting good captions for the next week’s NME or Melody Maker.  Who knows, could have also made it into the Daily Mail or The Sun.  (How about the caption, “Pop! Goes the Art Scene”??)  I was more of a Guardian reader if truth be told. . . . 

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

Click on below link for more info:

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. . .