Waiting on the Moon, page 25
Jim, surprised, said, “I thought you guys were on Atlantic.”
Abe leaned in and quietly said, “Well, Jim, just between us, we’re looking for a new home.”
Jim responded excitedly, “Wait a second! Are you telling me there’s a possibility that we could sign the Geils band?”
Abe replied, cautiously, “Yeah, if you’re ready to make a good enough offer.”
Jim jumped at the bait. “Gentlemen, please don’t leave this table. Can you wait and let me call Mr. Menon?”
Abe explained that things were moving fast, but if he could do it quickly, we’d wait. Jim rushed off to the phone booth as Abe and I sat looking at each other.
“Abe, we don’t have a deal with Col—”
He cut me off. “Pete, let me handle this. Keep your mouth shut and don’t say a word.”
I asked Abe who this Bhaskar guy was, and Abe replied, “Maybe one of the most powerful men in the record industry. He oversees EMI Records worldwide. He even makes Ahmet and Atlantic seem like small potatoes.” EMI Records, which owned Capitol, was such a long shot that Abe never even considered approaching them.
Jim hurried back to our booth and asked if we wouldn’t mind waiting twenty minutes, adding that Mr. Menon was on his way. Abe’s eyes opened as wide as the six zeros that make up a million, assuring him that we would wait. Abe ordered a very expensive bottle of wine and made pleasant small talk with Jim. Not wanting to betray my nervousness, I quietly sat staring at the olive afloat in my half-finished martini.
A half hour later, in walked an extremely distinguished gentleman in his midforties He was of medium build, his hair neatly trimmed, and he was finely dressed in what looked like a hand-tailored Savile Row suit. Like Ahmet, he carried a royal air of great elegance and wealth. With a polished, clipped Indian accent, he introduced himself. Abe asked him to please join us, so he slid into the booth next to me.
“It’s with such great honor and pleasure to meet you both. Few things would get me out of bed at this time of night, but my very good man here, Mr. Mazza, tells me one of the great rock groups is looking for a new home. Such opportunities of this high importance do not happen frequently.”
Abe continued his cat-and-mouse game. “Well, we’re just about to sign a deal with Columbia Records, and as a matter of fact, I’m meeting with them tomorrow.”
Bhaskar interjected, “No, no, Mr. Somer. My esteemed friend here, Mr. Mazza, has just mentioned that fact of information to me on the phone, but you are like a wish come true for this young man, and hopefully it will be a dream come true for all of us at EMI Records worldwide. We want to discuss the possibility of signing the band. We also might be able to offer you something that can possibly put Columbia Records in the rearview mirror.”
Abe looked at me as if to check that we were both hearing the same thing. He sat back and let Jim continue his sales pitch about EMI Records. Bhaskar ordered a martini, and my nerves were so tightly wound that I ordered a fresh one, too. Jim and Abe were already working out deal points as Bhaskar and I sipped our cocktails.
That second martini turned into a third. Bhaskar said to me, “You know, my dear friend, why don’t we let these gentlemen hash out all these monotonous details while we go off and get to know each other without the intrusion of business chatter?” We proceeded outside and waited for the valet, who rushed to get Bhaskar’s car. It was a brand-new top-of-the-line Porsche convertible. We took off down Santa Monica Boulevard to the Beverly Hills Hotel’s Polo Lounge, where we indulged in several more cocktails. We then adjourned to the Four Seasons Hotel bar, where we continued our conversation and consumption.
Bhaskar suggested we head back to the Palm to see how business was developing. When we arrived, the valets jostled with one another, each hoping to get behind the wheel and drive this glorious new Porsche. We returned to the booth, where Jim and Abe were still deep in their discussion of deal points and international releases. Little did any of us realize the importance of that evening. Our first EMI album would go on to nearly outsell everything we ever recorded for Atlantic combined, while our third EMI album became the number-one-selling record not only in America but also throughout the world in the year it was released.
Abe suggested to Jim that they continue their discussion in the morning. They departed while Bhaskar and I remained behind for one final round of martinis. He discussed his early childhood in India and described his move to London, where he swept the floors of the very studio in which the Beatles recorded, adding, “After being just a sweeper, I slowly made my way up the corporate ladder to become the worldwide CEO of the company.”
I happened to find out later that Bhaskar was far from a floor sweeper: he was in fact from one of the most prominent families in India and had been educated in England at Christ Church, Oxford. He first became the head of EMI in India, then was transferred to London, where he continued his steady ascent and did, in fact, become the company’s worldwide CEO. I guess if Abe could tell tales about Columbia Records wanting to sign us, it was fair game for Bhaskar to spin his own tales about his lowly entry into EMI.
The lights came up at the Palm, signaling closing time. Last call was announced, so we doubled up our final order. Bhaskar asked if I needed a ride. I lied, not wanting to inconvenience him or be seen ordering a taxi, saying, “Oh, no, Bhaskar. I have a car.” We continued to chat outside the restaurant as the valet drove up with Bhaskar’s car, mistakenly leaving the driver’s-side door open. We continued our talk, oblivious to the fact that the car was there—until we heard an almighty crash. Another valet had driven a Mercedes right into the open door on the driver’s side of the Porsche, ripping it off.
Bhaskar, not missing a beat, turned and saw the door lying on the pavement, then called the valet, who came rushing over. Bhaskar asked him, “Which gentleman runs the valet service?” The manager appeared, full of flustered apologies. Bhaskar said calmly, “No, no, no, there’s no need to apologize. Why don’t you just buy the car from me right now and save us all a lot of headaches?”
The manager looked bewildered by Bhaskar’s suggestion, then stuttered, “I’m only an employee of the valet service, and I could never afford a car that expensive, sir.”
Bhaskar was quite understanding and proceeded to get into his doorless car, offering, “Well, we will figure it out in the morning.” We all stood there, nervously worrying that without the door, he could easily fall out. I asked the valet, “Do you have some way we can secure him? The seat belt has been torn out.”
One of the attendants came running back with rope, and we proceeded to tie Bhaskar to his seat. In our martini haze, he and I thought this was a brilliant plan, and we both laughed hysterically while he was being encircled with ropes. Once tightly secured with double and triple knots, Bhaskar, with debonair charm, bade me farewell. “My dear Mr. Wolf, this has been such a memorable evening, an honor and pleasure. You’re a true gentleman, having the thoughtfulness of making sure I’m secure and safe. I’m beholden to you. Are you sure I can’t give you a lift to your hotel?”
“Oh, no, sir. It’s okay.”
He smiled and said, “Well, I certainly hope we speak again soon,” and off he roared down Santa Monica Boulevard. I stood on the sidewalk along with the valets, watching as he stopped for the first red light and then for the second. His blinker came on as he slowly turned a corner. Oh, good, I thought. He seems okay, and he’s definitely tied in tight. I asked the valet who was carrying off Bhaskar’s door to call a taxi, and I headed back to my hotel.
The next morning, I was awakened not only by a loud pounding on the door but also by an aggressive pounding inside my head. I staggered over slowly, the room spinning, as I opened the door and saw a bellman standing there with a large white box, beautifully wrapped in blue ribbon. I took the mysterious box, inside of which was a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal Rosé champagne and a handwritten note.
My dear friend,
Thank you so much for a thoroughly entertaining evening. I will make sure Mr. Mazza and Mr. Somer finish their work so we may have the honor of you and your extraordinary band on our new label.
With my best,
Bhaskar
P.S. After about ten minutes of honking my horn nonstop, I eventually woke up my wife, and after several attempts, she was finally able to cut me loose.
Sir, you tie a very good knot!
28
KNOWS TO NOSE
Pinkpop Festival
AFTER TEN YEARS, the Geils band was finally headlining arenas. It was the summer of 1980, and we were about to embark on a tour of the Midwest, when I received a phone call from our booking agent, Frank Barsalona. He was excited about a great opportunity for us. A popular up-and-coming rock group, Van Halen, was scheduled to headline the prestigious Pinkpop Festival in the Netherlands. I was friendly with their lead guitar virtuoso, Eddie Van Halen, and I was pleased that his namesake band was shooting up the charts. This festival was the perfect venue for them: Eddie and his brother Alex’s Dutch heritage and the fact that this was to be their first-ever performance in Holland was exciting for native fans and press alike. However, their lead singer, David Lee Roth, had apparently broken his nose and needed surgery, forcing them to cancel their performance.
Our agent was thrilled that the promoters suggested us as the replacement headliner for the festival. Pinkpop took place every year and involved around ten groups, an eclectic and unpredictable lineup. This diversity made it an important event to play and an even more important event to headline.
I traveled on ahead of the band, stopping off to do advance press in London, where I was informed upon arrival that Van Halen would be able to play the festival after all. According to their manager, Roth’s father was in the medical field and was able to get David back on his feet pretty fast. There was, however, a new twist: Van Halen didn’t want to headline but instead wanted to play in the slot just before us. At this point in their career, it was a known fact that their strategy was to play the underdog in an attempt to steal the thunder away from any band that played after them. They were confident in their ability to undermine the headliner, thereby hoping to gain a greater following.
I wasn’t worried. We were a damn good live band and could hold our own. Working our way up, we’d opened for many great artists: the Stones, the Who, the Faces, Janis Joplin, and B.B. King, to name but a few. When Geils headlined, we tried to be supportive of the opening acts, knowing that if they connected with our audience, one day they, too, might be headliners. This proved to be the case with U2, Tom Petty, Billy Joel, Bonnie Raitt, Iggy Pop, and the Eagles, among others.
London has always been one of my favorite cities, and I was glad to make a stop there en route to Amsterdam, not only to meet the press and our European record companies but also to patronize English pubs. In particular, I have an addiction to sweet and tasty English bitters. A well-pulled fresh pint is, in my opinion, pretty hard to beat.
While I was in London, the record company supplied me with a car and driver. Eager to make the most of this trip, I called some musician friends and arranged to hook up with Nick Lowe, my old friend from his days as a member of the group Brinsley Schwarz. He was working in his studio with Elvis Costello, whom I had met on his first tour of the States.
After a couple of meet and greets with the record folk to plan the press junket, I jumped in my car, off to visit Nick. As we headed toward his studio, I told the driver how much I loved English bitters. He acknowledged this with, “Sir, I don’t think you’ll find any tonight. The pubs are set to close pretty soon—in around fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes!” I replied. “Pull over to the first pub you come to!”
“Sir, I don’t advise stopping anywhere in Camden. There’s been a lot of trouble here lately, and these pubs can get pretty rough at night.”
“Listen, I gotta have some bitters. Please, just pull over. There’s one up ahead!”
“But sir, I don’t think it’s a wise idea.”
“My friend, I’m from New York City—the Bronx, to be exact. Trust me: wherever we are, it ain’t gonna be as rough as the Bronx.”
“If you insist, sir.” He pulled over to a pub on the corner, and I jumped out, hoping to at least catch last call.
The pub was totally empty except for three stocky men in their early thirties standing at the bar. This flat-capped trio wore faded denim work trousers, and their shirtsleeves were rolled high onto muscular tattooed arms. I was dressed from head to toe in black: leather pants, Cuban-heeled boots, turtleneck, leather jacket, all topped with a cool black-felt Borsalino fedora and Ray-Ban sunglasses. They sized me up as I approached the bar. The bartender continued chatting with them. Only when I called out to him did he begrudgingly make his way over. I asked for four pints of bitters.
“Four pints? You know we’re closing up in ten minutes.”
“Yeah, I know. Just pour me four good pints, and I’ll be on my way.”
The man nearest to me asked, in a thick Cockney accent, “Where you from, mate?”
“The States.”
“From the States, you say now. What you doing ’round here?”
“I’m working.”
“Working where?”
“Just working.”
As the pints were being poured and delivered one by one, I guzzled them down as fast as I could. I reached into my pocket to find a mess of crumpled ten-pound notes all mixed up with a bunch of dollar bills. Some fell to the floor, and I bent down to grab them.
“Where you rushing to?”
“I’m meeting up with some friends.”
“Friends? What friends do you have ’round here?”
“I don’t know if they’re from around here. My driver is taking me.”
As soon as I heard those words come out of my mouth, I knew it was a blunder, but the bitters had gone right to my head.
“Driver! You got a driver?”
Two pints were left, so I wanted to pay up and finish as quickly as possible.
“So you got a driver and you’re working here in Camden?” His tone told me it was best to hurry up and leave. I paid the bartender and, not knowing how long a drive we had, thought it would be wise to take a leak.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“What, you havin’ a bath, luv? It’s in the back, down a flight of stairs. You can’t miss it. If you do, you’ll smell it!” answered the bartender, and the men guffawed.
I headed down the dimly lit concrete stairs. At the urinal, I realized the large quantity of liquids I had consumed meant that a quick whiz was out of the question. At the sound of heavy footsteps behind me, I turned to see two of the men from the bar standing there.
A swift punch was thrown at my nose, followed by a landing shot to my jaw, and down I went. The other man gave me some good hard kicks in the ribs with the heel of his heavy work boot, saying, “Get back to your driver and stay the fuck out of Camden, you fucking wanker!” They ran out. I must have been in shock, because I staggered to my feet, zipped my pants, and rushed up the stairs to chase after them. I asked the bartender, “Where the hell did they go?”
“Go? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I careened onto the street. My driver was waiting in front, but I could see them up ahead, walking fast and turning the next corner, a block and a half away. There was a bobby standing on that corner, and I ran to him, explained that I was attacked in a pub, and pointed to the three men, who were still in sight. The bobby and I gave chase while he took out his whistle, blowing it several times as it echoed off the wet and narrow cobblestone street.
We were running for at least two blocks, the bobby furiously blowing his whistle, when suddenly a group of men jumped from two unmarked vans. Some chased the men from the pub, and three of them ran to tackle me. I was pinned to the ground by a hard shoe to my back. Unaware until that moment of the severity of my injuries, I saw blood trickling and pooling in the cracks of the street. The pain was stabbing at my head and chest. I could hear the conversation between the bobby and the men from the van. They were, apparently, undercover detectives who had been waiting all night following a tip about a large shipment of heroin to be delivered to a nearby terraced apartment.
The head detective told the bobby that at the sound of his whistle they had assumed he was chasing all four of us. It was then suggested that the best option was to take everyone down to the station. Fortunately, they put the three men in one van and me in another. When we arrived, I was put in a cell—more like a cage—in an alley behind the police station. Soon after, the three men from the pub were thrown into the adjoining cell. They clapped their eyes on me, trying to grab me between the bars, telling me what they would do when they got their hands on me—“You’re a dead man!”—and hurling other similarly eloquent threats.
I was menaced and spat upon in that alley for what seemed like forever until at last a detective unlocked my cage and walked me to a small windowless room. There was a single light hanging from the ceiling, a small metal table, an ashtray stacked high with cigarette butts, and a bunch of heavy wooden chairs where two detectives, pasty-faced, sweaty, and balding, were sitting, waiting for me.
“Could you tell us what happened?”
“I need to see a doctor!”
“You won’t be seeing anybody until you tell us what happened.”
I shouted, “I’m an American, and I want to see a doctor! I’ve got blood pouring out of my face, and my ribs are killing me. I need to see a doctor now!”
“Sonny, we’re in charge here, and you won’t see any doctors until you answer our questions.”
