 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
 |
|
3/ Clive Davis [ Back to excerpts ]
The record company wind-up was fuelled even further by our showcase gigs. We rented a warehouse in the railway arches under Charing Cross Station, where the club called Heaven now is, and we would rehearse there all day every day for ten weeks, refining the songs, the moves, seeing what worked. Trying out new performance ideas, costumes and new instruments. We had an acoustic engineer who came down to try to develop a whole new system of amplifying a rock band, using individual amplifiers combined with monitor speakers and lighting which would lay at our feet at the front of the stage, pointing upwards. The theory was that if we could reduce the volume of the instruments onstage, our sound engineer would be able to get much more control over the mix which was heard by the audience. Also it meant that we could do away with the ubiquitous ugly black boxes of stage amplification, which made every band's onstage set-up look the same. We had this determination, about which we were evangelical, to look different, to sound different and to be different. After months of trying to get the new system to work we finally had to abandon the idea, as we were just not able to get the sonic brutality our music demanded out of our new prototype units.
Once the rehearsal warehouse got burgled in the middle of the night, and a tape recorder and some tapes were stolen. The next day we rigged up an absolutely lethal burglar deterrent to make sure it never happened again. Our method of deterrence was essentially to rig the entrance's metal door handle up to one cable from the electric mains, going through an American step-down transformer. Another cable was attached to a metallic doormat on which any unsuspecting burglar would naturally stand. Touching the door handle while standing on the doormat would send 120 volts through the uninvited guest. We giggled like maniacs as we set the trap, not really knowing whether 120 volts could kill or merely deliver an unforgettable jolt. We arrived expectantly the next morning, like poachers going to inspect their snares. The whole lobby was blackened with soot, but the door had not been breached. We howled with laughter for days as we imagined the tableau, the blackened face and torn clothes of the putative thief, his hair standing on end as he fled for his life empty-handed.
Once a week, a top record company exec from some or other label would be invited to come along and watch us play an informal short set, with Morrison and de Villeneuve schmoozing and dispensing hospitality. We got to be the masters of the 15 minutes blitz!!! 4 great songs and out you go! On one occasion I remember Clive Davis, the head of CBS records at that time, the guy who signed Springsteen, came to watch us. The show had gone well, and Morry and Justin were exchanging conspiratorial winks with us onstage. In the middle of our fourth song finale, where thunder flashes, strobes and smoke were supposed to deliver the coup de grace to any sceptical mogul, a rogue electrical cable beneath Davis's chair ignited, and soon his exclusive seat was in flames. Unsure whether to vacate or stay put, he stayed put. His elegant cashmere suit was ruined as Nigel Willoughby, our roadie, somewhat over-enthusiastically turned the fire extinguisher on him, and he left in something of a hurry. We didn't sign to CBS.