20
May 1992
‘Where are the gold lilos?’ shouted the photographer. ‘And where is that bloody unicorn?’
The entire area surrounding the pool at Hartfield Hall was in chaos. The view from the Berkshire country house hotel was obscured by huge lights, a camera on some sort of crane and a fog machine blowing smoke across the water. An army of extras dressed up as fairies were queuing for make-up and in between all of it ran innumerable men and women wearing baseball caps and carrying walkie-talkies.
‘It’s only a bloody album cover shoot,’ said Year Zero’s bassist Gavin, staring at the scene from the door of the hotel bar. ‘You’d think they were storming the beaches at Normandy.’
For once, the whole band was in a good mood, finally convinced that the record company believed in them, that they were getting somewhere. For the last year they had felt anything but: slogging around the toilet circuit, struggling for any sort of recognition in the music press, releasing a four-track EP that had gone down like a frozen turkey. The biggest blow for Alex was when they had moved down to London. He had always imagined that when he had a record contract, he would be living in a waterside apartment with a Porsche on the drive, but instead, he and Emma shared a mould-ridden Camden Town bedsit where one morning Alex had found a mouse in the toaster. Some days, he had felt like that was a metaphor for his career.
But not any more. Since Year Zero had recorded their debut album The Long March, things were changing; suddenly everyone was excited. ‘Don’t Talk’, their first single from the album, had just been released and industry buzz around it suggested that it would go in high when the charts were announced later that day. On top of all that, the record company had employed a team of radio pluggers to get them airplay and the band had even been interviewed on TV. Now they were shooting the album cover with legendary rock photographer Anton Jones. Finally it was all coming together.
‘Excuse me, guys?’ A girl carrying a clipboard walked into the bar and looked around at the band nervously.
‘Can I speak to your manager?’ She glanced down at the board. ‘Nathan Fox, is it?’
Jez immediately switched into PR mode. ‘He’s not here, lovely.’ He smiled wolfishly. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘Oh, well we just need someone to sign off on the car,’ she said.
‘What car?’ said Alex.
‘The Rolls-Royce,’ said the girl as Jez signed something on her clipboard with a flourish.
‘What Rolls-Royce?’ said Alex.
‘The Roller I’m going to drive straight into that pool!’ said Jez happily, taking a swig from a bottle of Bacardi.
‘You knew about this?’
‘Knew about it? It was my idea! Think of it, all the rock iconography – Keith Moon, Marc Bolan, Bon Scott carking it in a car – it’s all there.’
‘This shoot is costing a bloody fortune in unicorns as it is.’
Jez threw his arm around Alex’s shoulder and breathed rum fumes into his face. ‘It’s basic common sense: if the label wants to spend a fortune on our album cover, you don’t stop them. You want it to look as mental as possible.’
Alex wriggled free and pushed Jez back. ‘And who’s paying for this, Jez?’ he said.
‘How the fuck do I know?’ said Jez, annoyed.
‘We are, you moron! Everything comes out of our advance.’
‘Wow, do you two always fight like this?’ They both turned to see Liz Gold eyeing them with interest. The Melody Maker journalist was at the shoot to get ‘some colour’ for a four-page story the paper was running on the band. Alex noticed with a sinking feeling that the red light on the journalist’s dictaphone machine was on.
‘Fight? Nah, we’re just hamming it up for the press,’ said Jez, squeezing Alex’s shoulders. ‘Like brothers, aren’t we, Al?’
Alex smiled weakly.
Liz nodded, looking from one to the other as if she didn’t believe a word. She was right of course. Alex’s relationship with Jez had gone from bad to worse lately after Jez had demanded a share of the songwriting credits, threatening to quit unless it happened. The upshot was that Alex had been presented with an impossible decision: agree to Jez’s demands, give him equal billing on the songs and let him take credit for all Alex’s talent an
d hard work, not to mention a cut of the publishing royalties, or walk away from a band with a record contract and start again. In the end he had no choice: he caved in, but it did nothing for inter-band morale.
‘Listen, I’m just going up to your room where it’s quieter,’ said Liz, touching Jez flirtatiously on the shoulder. ‘Why don’t you come up when you’re ready and we can do our part of the interview?’
‘I’m in there,’ said Jez matter-of-factly, when Liz had gone.
‘Jez, don’t screw up the article by getting frisky with her.’