‘Sing it, Elf,’ says Bert Jansch, ‘or Andy won’t let you out.’
If ‘Any Way The Wind Blows’ is an albatross around Elf’s neck, it’s been a generous albatross. ‘So my last song is my big American hit.’ That D-string’s loose again. ‘My big American hit for Wanda Virtue.’ The line earns its reliable laugh. Elf was singing this song years before she met Bruce, before he monkeyed about with the ending to make it segue into his Ned Kelly ballad. She shuts her eyes. Strum down-up-down down-up. A deep breath …
One round of applause, half a dozen hugs, many variations of ‘You’re better off without him’ and several reviews of the new songs later, Elf gets to the stockroom that doubles as Andy’s office. To her surprise, she finds four men squeezed into it, as well as Andy. Elf recognises two: the good-looking plectrum-retriever and his lankier neighbour who cued her ‘Wild Mountain Thyme’ line. The third man has cloudy brown hair, a Regency moustache, lidded eyes that look like they’re smirking, and a caddish air. The fourth, leaning against the filing cabinet, is a few years older. A big, bony face with receding hair, glasses with light blue lenses, a halo of confidence and a Prussian blue suit with sunset-red buttons.
‘The woman of the hour,’ declares Andy. ‘The new songs are corkers. Someone will record them, if A&B are too stupid to.’
‘Glad you approve,’ says Elf. ‘If you’re all having a meeting, I’ll come back.’
‘Less a meeting,’ says Andy, ‘more a plotters’ huddle. Meet Levon Frankland. An old partner in crime.’
The blue-glasses guy puts his hand on his heart. ‘Great show. Truly.’ He’s American. ‘Those three new songs? Dynamite.’
‘Thanks.’ Elf wonders if he’s gay. She turns to the darker shorter one. ‘And thank you for my plectrum.’
‘Any time. Dean Moss. Loved yer set. That pause, when yer made us think yer’d forgotten the words. Brilliant stagecraft.’
Elf confesses: ‘It wasn’t stagecraft.’
Dean Moss just nods as if, after all, that makes sense.
Elf wonders if his face is familiar. ‘Have we met?’
‘A year ago. Auditions for a talent show at Thames TV. I was in a band called Battleship Potemkin. You sang a folk song.’
‘That’s it. We all lost to a child ventriloquist with a dodo thing,’ Elf recalls. ‘Sorry I didn’t recognise you.’
‘Pfff. It was one o’ them days yer want to forget. As well as that, I was working at the Etna coffee shop on D’Arblay Street till last month. Yer’d come in quite often, though I was stuck behind the machines, so yer prob’ly didn’t notice me.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t. Why didn’t you come out and tell me, “Oy, I’m that guy from the Thames TV thing”?’
Dean looks at his hands. ‘Embarrassment, I s’pose.’
Elf’s not sure what to say. ‘That’s very honest.’
‘I’m Griff,’ says the tousled, moustached one. ‘I play drums. I liked “Polaroid Eyes” best. A cracker.’ He’s an obvious northerner. ‘And this bleeder,’ Griff nods at the tall, skinny red-haired one, ‘is Jasper de Zoet. His real name, believe it or not.’
Jasper shakes Elf’s hand as if following instructions. ‘I’ve never met anyone called “Elf” before.’ He sounds upper-class.
‘It’s the “El” of “Elizabeth” and the “F” of “Frances”. My sister Bea started it when she was little, and it’s stuck.’
‘It’s apt,’ says Jasper. ‘Your voice is elvish. I’ve played “Oak, Ash And Thorn” over a hundred times. Your recording of “King Of Trafalgar” has remarkable’ – he does a finger-twirl – ‘psycho-acoustics. Is that a word?’
‘Possibly,’ says Elf, adding unguardedly, ‘if it is a word, it rhymes with “Pooh sticks”.’
Jasper looks diagonally. ‘Or “Why throw the Pooh sticks?”’
Ooo, thinks Elf. Somebody else is a lyricist.
Levon removes his glasses. ‘We have a proposal, Elf.’
‘Okay. Since you’re a friend of Andy’s, I’ll listen to it.’
‘I’ll make myself scarce.’ Andy hands her an envelope. ‘Here’s your fee. It’s the duo rate. You earned it.’ He exits.
‘First, a little context.’ Levon Frankland shuts the door. ‘I’m a music manager. Raised in Toronto, but I went to New York to become a folk-singing colossus. My turtleneck sweaters were spot on, but everything else came up short, so I worked on Tin Pan Alley for a spell. First with a publisher, then with a booking agent who looked after British invasion acts. I came to London four years ago to mind some American names on tour here and stayed on. I clocked up studio time gophering for Mickie Most, shifted into A&R for a year, and now it’s management. An all-rounder, you could call me. Various people call me various things. I never take it personally. Cigarette?’
‘Sure,’ says Elf.
Levon distributes his Rothmans. ‘Late last year, I had dinner with two gentlemen named Freddy Duke and Howie Stoker. Freddy’s a tour agent based in Denmark Street. Old school, but open to new ideas. Howie’s an American investor who recently acquired Van Dyke Talent, a middle-sized New York promotions agency. Freddy and Howie’s big plan was – is – to merge the companies into a single-bodied two-headed transatlantic agency to be a gateway for British acts wanting to tour in the States, and vice versa. Foreign tours are a minefield without local knowledge. The music unions’ regulations rob your will to live. So Freddy and Howie came to me with a fresh plan. How would I like to sign a small stable of talent, record demos, manage and get my acts signed and recorded, tour them via Duke-Stoker and grow them into household names? I’d be operating from their offices in Denmark Street but with artistic autonomy. Duke-Stoker would pay seed money and my salary for a year, in return for a – relatively modest – cut of future profits. We’d shaken on it before the dessert trolley arrived. Lo, Moonwhale Music was born.’
‘New labels are springing up like mushrooms,’ says Elf.
‘Most will last as long as mushrooms, too.’ Levon drags on his cigarette. ‘They sign the first gang of Paisley-suited likely lads they come across in Carnaby Street, blow their capital on studio fees, fail to get any radio play and die of debt within twelve months. I want to curate a group by hand. No auditions. And we’ll rehearse before we start gigging, so we’re flawless from the get-go. Most revolutionary of all, I’m going to give my artists a fair slice of the pie, not steal the pie and deny it ever existed.’
‘A novel approach,’ says Elf. ‘What kind of group?’
‘You’re looking at it,’ says Griff. ‘Dean on bass, Jasper on lead, yours truly on drums. Them two sing and write.’
‘What we’re missing is a keyboard player,’ says Jasper.
So they’re offering me a job, thinks Elf.
‘A keyboard player who writes,’ says Levon. ‘Most bands can’t crank out enough quality material to fill an album. But with Dean and Jasper and A. N. Other each bringing three or four songs along, we could put out an LP of original songs.’