The Sound Mixers

By Eric Scott

It’s 1971 and rock and roll was at its height. Small-time Australian agent Wayne Zemmerman scored an unimaginable coup when he signs British supergroup Andromeda for a nationwide tour. Showbiz reporter Scottie McPherson smells a rat and starts his investigation. The Sound Mixers is a dramatic expose of the rock industry: fiction that reads like fact. A gripping story that moves at breathtaking pace to a devastating climax, Performers, promoters, manipulators, illusion creators – the characters which inhabit the world of rock’n’roll are ruthlessly dissected in an intricate plot full of shocks and suspense. Big business is the name of the game; a game in which the tough survive… but even then not always.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: Jun 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783331499

Eric Scott

Eric Scott is a published novelist with adult, teenage and primary school books to his name as well as two editions of one-act Plays for teenagers. Most of his plays have been performed in amateur and professional venues. He does a regular theatre review and preview spot on the Spectrum arts program on radio 4EB, 98.1 FM, at noon each Friday and runs his own entertainment web page at www.absolutetheatre.com.au He is also an actor and director with more than 50 productions under his belt.

Book preview

damages.

PART ONE

It was 1972 in Melbourne Australia and the world of pop was humming. The superstar had been born and fortunes were being made. Everyone was chasing a slice of the action, including Wayne Zemmerman. Wayne however was still awaiting a bigger piece of the musical pie and the phone call he was taking at that moment was not helping.

Bastards, he muttered angrily to himself as he slammed down the phone. You’ve got to be a Jew or a poof to survive in this business. He was, however unaware that the day was going to bring change that even his vivid imagination could not imagine,

His faded blue eyes blazed angrily and his pale face was tinged pink. It was the third time in twenty minutes that he had tried to get a booking for his new act, teenage singer Joni Lawrence.

Zemmerman, White Anglo Saxon Protestant of Dutch descent and born in England, was in Show Business. Not the glamour side of lights, music and applause, but the sweat and swindle side. He was a promoter, an agent, a manager, a public relations man, anything in fact that might bring in a few dollars to eke out his precarious existence.

He sat in a black, plastic swivel chair, behind a vinyl-veneered desk. Three telephones, one red, two white sat on the desk, giving bright promise of riches to come. Two worked, the other was for effect.

So was the look of the rest of the room. Cork tiled walls were covered with fresh-looking press cuttings and photographs of artists, some famous, some unknown. The scarlet carpet was new and impressive. In twelve months however it was likely to fade into shabbiness.

Wayne had known that when he had it installed, but it didn’t worry him, for in twelve months he expected to be rich. He intended to be one of the men to make it big in the year ahead. One of the few in Australia, a land filled with show business hangers on, sharing the meagre crusts that filtered through their twilight world, existing but never succeeding, who was going to make it.

It was this constant expectation of sudden riches that kept him on the alert, looking for the elusive break. It was false optimism, like most other things in the tarnished glitter scene.

The one thing about Wayne that was real and of quality was his suit. It was a grey woollen Versace suit and was part of the trappings he considered necessary for success. The suit had been acquired from a wholesaler at cost, in part payment of a fee for a public relations promotion six months earlier.

In four years Wayne had climbed a little higher up the ladder than many of the other fast buck chasers. So far he had failed to make a big killing, but with some clever handling of a minor male singer he had managed to keep ahead of the debts. It was this, plus the manipulation of his books, that gave him just a little more money to spend than he actually earned.

There was no little trick or job that Wayne would not try.

In the shady world of small time management and agents Wayne was looked on as being honest. One who paid the artists he booked, but in his business honesty was a matter of degree.

His telephone buzzed and he snatched up the red receiver.

Hello, he said.

Wayne, are you in? It was Kathy Baker, his inexpensive secretary/receptionist, switchboard girl, and sometimes girlfriend. It’s the lead singer of that four-piece Italian group you picked up last week.

What? Oh, yes OK put him on. He paused while the outside line was switched through.

"G’dday Tino, what’s new?

Oh yes. Sure. I’m working on a campaign now. I’ve got a few guys who are really interested. As soon as I can I’ll book in for a real photographic session. It’ll cost a few quid, but it will be worth it in the long run. You have to have professional photos for the publicity and for display outside the venues you work.

"Yes, it looks good, makes them think you’re full time professionals. You don’t have to worry about the money either. I’ll take it out of jobs I get you. I’m not a rip-off merchant.

"The recording companies are sniffing too. Now listen, what we have to do is get down to the studio and make a demo tape. Yes. That’s right. Then we can really show them what we can do. I reckon there’s big money for you boys ahead.

Hang on a minute Tino.

One of the white telephones was ringing.

Yeah?

It’s Elstons, said Kathy. They want a band for Saturday.

Put ‘em on, said Wayne. Hey Tino, just hang in there will you, I might have something.

He set the white phone on the desk and concentrated on the other.

G’dday there Mal, said Wayne, smiling unseen to the man on the other end. "What can I do for you? Who? Oh, I doubt it, they’re out of town on a country tour, but I can give you a band just as good and a damn sight cheaper.

"No, they’re not Greeks straight off the boats. They’re a young bunch of damn good musicians. They all read too. What? Give us a go mate; they’ve done mostly school gigs. A good pub job like this is just what they need. I’ll tell you Mal, you take ‘em tonight, and you’ll be offering double to get them back next week.

"Yes they are that good. Have I ever sold you a bad one? Well? Right, so you know you can trust me.

Okay. They’re called Fantails and you can have them for $600 for the night. What? Come on, I’ve already saved you double that and I’ll guarantee they’ll play right through, including backing for the cabaret.

Okay, just for you $500 for the night. The con tract will be on the way tonight. Usual payment, right on to me. What do you mean? I am their bloody manager you know.

He listened for a second and laughed.

"You should worry, at an extra three cents a glass for the booze after 10, and you’ll do all right. These boys will keep the mugs in for the supper session.

Okay then Mal, see you. Cheers.

He put the phone down and picked up the red one.

"Hey Tino, you still there? Good. Listen I’ve got a job for you Saturday night. Yep. A pub job. See I told you I know the business. Yep, it’s $400 for the night, that’s eighty bucks a piece, minus my twenty per cent of course, not bad is it? Beats the jobs you were getting before I came along, eh?

Oh, by the way, on Saturday you’re called Fantails. Romanticas is too ethnic. Sounds Italian. I know you’re Italian, but on Saturday you rock it up and you’re called Fantails. Save Romanticas for Italian weddings. Do you want the job or don’t you? Okay then, just leave things to me and don’t worry. I won’t tell you to do something that’s not right. Rehearse the rock stuff all week and the job’s at the Elston. Oh... you boys can read charts can’t you? That’s good, because you’re backing the cabaret act too. Right then. Kill ‘em and you’ll be up to $500 a gig in no time.

He put the phone down and sighed. There was $100 earned for the next week, things were looking better. He picked up a pen and filled in one of the blank spaces on his booking chart, as he did so he noticed that the next couple of months were looking pretty good. He checked again.

Most of his own bands- he handled five, three under ‘personal management’, which meant twenty-five per cent commission and an extra five for ‘promotion.’

His pride and joy, male pop singer Johnny Russell, despite three records that had flopped and a cancelled recording con tract, was booked out every Saturday night for eight weeks, with several mid week jobs too.

All he had to do to make a reasonable profit was to get Joni Lawrence some work.

Joni was seventeen years old. Wayne had picked her raw talent when she had appeared on a television talent show. He liked her, talked to her and she had signed a contract just before a big-time agent had rung her, one who might have helped her a lot more than Wayne.

In his typical optimism through the constant battle to get on equal terms with the big money men, he held high hopes for both Johnny and Joni, although he admitted to himself that he was losing interest in Russell. This was something that normally happened when a new girl came along. He found it a hell of a lot more fun taking a girl along to do a show than he did a man.

He totted up the figures again. They were pleasing.

But the smile on his face faded to be replaced by a frown as he realised his ‘good’ figures were still so small time. Everything he did was small time and he desperately wanted to put himself into the headlines and the big league.

He dreamed of bringing to Australia an international superstar, for he knew that it was the only way to make the big money he needed to fulfil his real ambitions.

He leaned back in his chair, feet on the desk, staring at the ceiling.

With a hundred thousand dollars in his pocket he could make a real splash. With that sort of capital he wouldn’t have to go wheedling and crawling to the big record companies in search of a contract for his artists.

Nor would he have to resort to making records in cheap recording studios that were only fit for demonstration tapes, when the big companies turned him down.

Many times over the past four years he had promised artists he’d get a record released, and he’d done it. Getting song put into the shops wasn’t difficult. There were many people who owned record labels and had access to a record pressing plant who were willing to put out cheap products, but he had never had a quality product to sell.

More often than not the finished discs looked pretty with multi coloured labels, but sounded as if they’d been recorded in a garden shed. Radio stations refused to play any record which didn’t reach their degree of high fidelity sound, which meant that Wayne’s products never got to air.

This in turn meant that the records never made the charts which also meant Wayne didn’t make any profits, even if he put one of his own songs, which he sometimes wrote, on the B side.

He put one of his songs on record as often as he could. Not that they were good, but he knew that any record that became a hit, earned as much for the B side as it did the side that took the record to the top of the charts. It seemed a good idea. It had the chance of profit and cost him no investment.

Her sighed as he realised yet again that fiddling around and trying to do things with his meagre amount of capital, was a waste of time. What he needed was something really big.

He had tried to start small in the concert line, hoping to build to better things. He did small promotions, small tours, but although he had never lost on a deal like that, he had never cleared more than a few hundred dollars either.

Mounting any sort of show was expensive, too expensive for Wayne in reality, but with his clever skimping and corner cutting he managed to mount a few.

However, the cheap way didn’t pay and the concerts looked shoddy. He just didn’t have the finance to mount a full scale lighting show, and the bands who had their own gear were too expensive to hire.

He sighed again, thinking that one day one of those old contacts in Britain would come up with something. Maybe, one day.

Several of his old show business colleagues had taken the plunge and gone overseas. Some of them had made it and those he envied unreservedly.

He knew the dreaming had to stop, and that he had to get back to reality. But he could not accept the fact that he was the man who had been left behind.

***

In the little office outside Kathy Baker was busy typing up a contract form, one of her many daily tasks.

She earned much less working for Wayne than she would in the typing pool of a big company, and substantially less than if she used her shorthand, but she had tried that before and it did not appeal to her.

The regimentation was too much.

Here she had no regimentation and what she lost in salary she considered more than compensated for by the free movie seats, rock concerts and the rip-roaring press receptions which she attended. She loved the free-wheeling merry-go-round of show business. She was also deeply in love with Wayne Zemmerman.

She stopped her typing as the postman walked in carrying a large bundle of letters, one of which was about to change Wayne’s life..

He tipped his cap to the back of his head.

Mornin’ sweetheart, he said, dumping the sack he carried onto the reception room’s green plastic arm chair. He patted his stomach which protruded largely over his regulation trousers.

A bit more of this weather and this’ll melt right away for sure, he said.

He was sweating, his armpits damp, for outside it was unseasonably hot for mid November in Melbourne. The heat however, did not penetrate the confines of the office suite. The one good thing about the cramped two roomed place, apart from the cheap rent, was inbuilt air conditioning.

Want a beer or a coke, asked Kathy, rising from her chair.

The postman waved her down.

Love one really, but I’ll wait until I’ve done. Then I’ll get down to the pub for a spell. he said. I don’t like walking round in this heat with beer in my belly. It gets warm before it’s digested. Never mind. Maybe tomorrer.

He put a parcel of letters down on Kathy’s desk, picked up his bag and marched out again.

Kathy picked up the mail and flipped quickly through it. Experience had now taught her to sort out the bills from the cheques without opening the letters. She did this quickly, put the bills on one side and picked up the pile of money mail.

Then she stopped. There was one from Britain. Unusual!

She shrugged and walked into Wayne’s office.

Mail, she said, putting in front of him. Only the good stuff. I’ll look after the rest.

Good girl, said Wayne. I’d be on the street without you."

Kathy smiled and walked out.

Wayne picked up the mail and began to open it. Several contained cheques from venues around the country that had used artists on Wayne’s books. From these he would take his normal commission, and whenever possible, his illegal cut and from the remainder pay off those acts who pestered him hard enough.

He never paid out until he had to. It was the only way he could survive, but he always succumbed in the end, which is why he won his reputation for being a payer. Unlike some of his opposing agents he wasn’t tough enough to bluff out an unknown band and refuse payment.

It was not that he enjoyed making people wait, but while some venues paid out on the spot, others had to be chased hard; even court orders had to be issued at times.

Show business on a small scale is precarious at the best of times. So many people worked on shoestring budgets and most, like Wayne, were waiting for the big moment when the gamble would pay off and the riches would come rolling in.

Wayne continued to open his mail until his eyes hit the letter with the English stamp. He frowned and picked it up, looking at the post mark, which read High Holborn, London.

He weighed it carefully in his hand, frowning more, wondering who it was from. He knew it was not from a relative, for the envelope was typed, so decided that it must be from one of his old contacts in London.

Smiling again, accepting his mental explanation, he split open the top of the envelope and took out the letter from in side.

He opened the neatly folded paper, feeling it with his thumb as he did so. It was good paper.

Then he started to read.

The normal moon tan on his face faded to an even paler shade of white and his heart began to beat faster.

He read it over again.

Oh, my God, he said and reached for the phone.

Kathy, he said in almost a whisper. Get me Scottie will you?

Are you okay, Wayne? asked Kathy. She didn’t like the sound of his voice.

Sure, he croaked, Just get me Scottie quick and bring me a cup of coffee, no, make that a Scotch.

Kathy put down the phone and tapped her face with well manicured finger nails.

What, she wondered was all that about.

Her tiny nose wrinkled as she frowned. She was worried, but then worrying about Wayne was nothing new. She was always worrying about him. She was in love with him, but was happy to accept the casual arrangement Wayne wanted between them. She hoped that one day he’d find her emotionally indispensable.

Kathy was twenty-five years old, a top flight secretary, extremely pretty and efficient. Her hair was fair, tiger striped with blonde, an effect caused by the bleaching power of the sun in the summer and the hairdresser in the winter. Her eyes were blue and she wore little make-up.

In the office she wore a lot of denim, and today her legs, just a little short from knee to ankle, spread out from a neat little skirt.

She could look terribly fierce, but in reality she froze inside at any sign of noise or violence. She was a total softly and she knew it.

At twenty-five she might well have been happily married with a couple of small children, for she had the appeal and the looks to attract men. In fact she had always had this appeal, but she was not wise in her choice of men. Since the age of seventeen she’d had several disastrous affairs. She was the type of girl the middle aged, married executive enjoyed and, in those days, was easily flattered into romance. Somehow she never learned that the married man usually goes back to his wife.

She fared little better with the single men in her life, who all turned out to be men made of smoke, of no substance at all.

Wayne Zemmerman was typical of the men she swooned over. He was smart talking, charming, good looking and always on the make. A good con merchant could always win her over quickly.

The steady nine to five, money making men somehow never appealed to her. They bored her. Maybe it was her way of rebelling against her own easy nature. She wasn’t sure whether the way she lived was right, but she did know that she enjoyed it and lived in excitement with the men she chose. The fact that she suffered a lot of heartache along the way didn’t seem to matter.

Kathy had been told so often by family and friends that she was too much of a dreamer. She was warned constantly that her new man would hurt her, but she blithely ignored the warnings. She would have even if she had believed them. Kathy was also stubborn and wilful and she was always full of hope.

But now she was worried, for Wayne appeared to be in trouble. His voice on the phone just then was odd. She couldn’t work out whether he was excited or terrified. Excited he became very often, about the strangest things, but then his voice had a different edge to it.

The telephone, never quiet for long, blared out again. She picked it up.

Hello, she said, Zed Enterprises. Pause.

One moment please, I’ll see if I can find him.

She put the phone on ‘hold’ and buzzed Wayne. His phone rang and Wayne picked it up.

Yes, he said eagerly.

Oh, it’s the Casino, they want to talk to you. I think it may be about a booking for Johnny, she said.

Tell them I’m not in and I’ll call them later today,’ snapped Wayne. And get me Scottie!" He slammed the phone down.

Kathy winced as the cut off rang in her ear.

God, something WAS wrong!

She picked up the incoming call.

Look, I’m terribly sorry, she said sweetly, but Wayne’s out at the moment. Can I get him to call you later? Or can I help you?

Oh, I see. Well, as far as I know he’s booked out for a couple of months at the weekend. You need him for a week? Well, it sounds good; maybe Wayne will be able to work something out. In fact, I’m pretty sure he could.

Her mind worked quickly as she made a decision for Wayne. In love she was a dreamer, in Wayne’s business a realist. Johnny Russell’s bookings could always be switched. A week at the Casino was a top booking, and it would pay good money.

Look, pencil him in for the week. I’ll get Wayne to confirm it and talk about the fee later today. Oh, yes. I’ll guarantee the return call.

She laughed.

No, don’t worry; I’ll sit on him until he calls you.

Wayne, always in a hurry, always wheeling and dealing had a bad habit of forgetting to return calls, even important ones, which was why Kathy herself made so many of those smaller decisions.

Okay then, bye now. You’ll hear from us later.

She hung up and made a note on the pad in front of her. This was a good one, she thought. I’ll tell him now.

But first let’s get his Scotch.

She went to the cocktail cabinet, neat and modern and standing next to the tank filled with dreamy tropical fish.

She mixed the drink. Two fingers of Scotch matched by water. She took it into Wayne’s office.

Here’s your drink, she said You look rough, what the hell is the matter.

He looked at her from behind the desk his head leaning on his hands.

The letter from England sat in front of him. half folded.

Oh, thanks, he muttered.

That phone call from the Casino, she said. They want Johnny for a full week.

Great, he said absently, I’ll fix it, but later.

He sipped his drink.

Did you get Scottie? he said.

Well, no, not yet, said Kathy. I got the Casino call and then I poured your drink. What’s the matter?

Wayne snapped out of his reverie. Nothing. Nothing. I told you to get Scottie. Now, get your bum out of here and bloody well get him.

He slammed his glass on the desk as his voice rose to a loud yell. Kathy, stung by the noise, scurried out, and slammed the door behind her. Her face was red and there were tears in her eyes.

She sat down behind her desk stifling a sob, her mouth tightening into a tiny set line.

Now, upset as she was, she was even more worried. Wayne had a thousand bad points, but one of them was not a violent temper. He wasn’t the type to scream, he was too much of a cool character.

He learned a long time ago that yelling didn’t get results, and now, at twenty-nine he had all his approaches worked out. Keep cool, keep smiling, and never let anyone know quite what you are thinking.

This outburst was bad.

The phone rang yet again. She picked it up, sniffed, and spoke, just managing to keep a tremor from her voice.

Hello, Zed Enterprises, she said.

No, I’m sorry he isn’t in at the moment. Can I take a message? Right. I’ll get him to call you as soon as he gets in.

This time she did not offer assistance and there was no inter-office communication; She wasn’t going to risk talking to Wayne again, not in the mood he was in.

The call had been from a magazine photographer and could have meant some good publicity for someone, but she decided to let him worry about that later, when he recovered his humour, if he ever did.

Her mind flipped quickly over any possibilities for this change in the man she loved. There was no-one suing for payment, he wasn’t playing around much either, so