Friday, October 6, 2017

Rock Stardom or the Wall of Brick

It didn’t work out having the woman to whom I am wed as the singer in The Freudian Sluts. Oh, did it not work out! I invited the fellow who’d been the singer on a side project to replace her, and he said he would, but then he said he wouldn’t. The stroke that had robbed him of the sight in one of his eyes had made it impossible for him to memorise lines in plays (he was mostly an actor) or lyrics, and even my saying he could have his lyrics on a music stand on stage didn’t help, as he didn’t think he’d remember how to phrase them. I became the group’s singer by default, but continued to advertise for someone much better.

And to receive virtually no replies. There were a fair number of responses to my ads, but when I would send links to our Website, there to watch videos and hear our songs, only one was ever heard from again, a fierce-eyed young Moldovan immigrant with a Paul Ryanesque widow’s peak who audition consisted of his growling along with an MP3 of The Thompson Twins’ Hold Me Now on his mobile phone, not impressively. 

I could certainly understand that we’re not everyone’s cup of tea. We’re not very jazzy, for instance, and a balls-out metalhead, dude, would undoubtedly find us insufficiently…rawk. Still, one audition in three months! When I’d formed The Pits in Los Angeles at the dawn of the punk era, if you put an ad for any kind of musician in The Recycler, your phone wouldn’t stop ringing for two years. My impression is that millennials don’t want to be in bands. They want to win a televised singing competition and become instantly rich and famous, or to be DJs, as its they who make the enormobucks, without having to be able to sing in tune, or to learn a lot of complicated chord positions on a fretboard.

Finally, in the fourth month of my being the reluctant lead singer, we got a fellow American expatriate, a 36-year-old MBA with a high-paying corporate PR day job that required her to wear uncomfortable shoes. She had a lovely understatedly soulful voice, but was able to rehearse at most three times a month. Worse, when we tried some recording together, she accused me of stifling her creativity. Having learned to dislike run-on sentences in Miss Marian Titangos’ junior high school English class, I asked her not to sing “and” at the end of every line. A skinny blonde woman with a nasal voice professed to like the songs, and seemed musical, but then announced that, as A Professional, she would rehearse only if paid. Oh, you betcha, Natali!

And then, finally, a breakthrough! The lovely and talented Susan P—, who lived north of north London, but had a car, and was willing to drive it long distances through Greater London traffic, seemed to like what the band was doing, and joined it. She sang beautifully, and didn’t hesitate to buy herself a sparkly red Jessica Rabbit gown to perform in when I suggested it, and was a pleasure to work with. But then, after a few months, she went through a painful romantic breakup, moved back to her native Midlands —  very far north of north London! — and pronounced herself available for no rehearsals, no recording sessions, and a maxiumum of one — count it! — performance per month. 

Back to gumtree.com, and to joinmyband.com. And to getting lots of completely inappropriate responses (as from persons who imagine that homemade videos of themselves rapping might fill me with enthusiasm) or persons from foreign countries. As I write this, I have now heard from four singers in eastern European countries who, apparently imagining the streets of London to be lined with gold, think The Freudian Sluts are going to fly them over to audition. 

We pause to note that it was exactly the same in Los Angeles in 2015. My band The Vexations (later The Romanovs) advertised for a singer, and got four responses.

A young Metropolitan Police constable with a beautiful voice responded to the ad. He provided a link to a video of him singing a Keane song, quite beautifully. He was also in a Led Zeppelin tribute band, in which he wore a chest-baring blouse and a curly blonde wig, so he was apparently versatile, and not easily embarrassed. After having watched our videos and listened to the music, he texted me, “I want to be part of this.” Which yearning persisted until around 35 minutes before we were to meet face-to-face. I began the 90 minutes’ bus-and-train journey an hour early to ensure that I showed up on time, and was sitting there in the pub he’d nominated, tapping my fingers on the table, when he texted to inform me that, on reflection, he found my songs “too dark” for his taste. It was kind of a nice change from people seeming not to note that, while many Freudian Sluts songs are upbeat and satirical, the majority, in one way or another, are about the myriad ways in which we hurt each other, or about my perpetual loneliness and despair. But I looked at the bright side. What fun I’d had travelling three hours back and forth for nothing!

It’s 14.00 as I write this. Up until a couple of hours  ago, I thought I was going to be meeting an actual Brit who'd sent me an MP3 of her performing A Natural Woman a cappella. Her intonation was far from impeccable, but her low voice had an appealing raspiness, and beggars can’t be choosers. But now she’s texted me that she’s decided she’s going to hold out for something more up-tempo and disco-y. 

Having an original band in London in the autumn of 2017, or standing six inches from a brick wall and trying to knock it down with my forehead. Decisions, decisions. 

1 comment:

  1. Aw,John. There is someone out there who is the perfect fit, although you may never find them.
    This world promises nothing. You are so creative. That is what you do and I hope you keep creating forever.

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