Although I had done nothing active in the music business since 1972, I had continued to run my publishing companies with Cora from the office at Bruton Place. Then, after four years, a single event happened that once again triggered my imagination.
I received a call in early 1976 from a young man called Malcolm McLaren. The name meant nothing to me, but he told my secretary that it was something very exciting to do with the music business. From memory, the call went something like, ‘We haven’t met, Bryan, but I know of your past successes in the music business and all of them were avant-garde and part of the new wave. Well, there’s another wave coming and I’m managing the best band in the world.’
I asked him what they were called, and he replied, ‘The Sex Pistols.’
I’m sure it’s true to say that McLaren, like Brian Epstein, was one of the managerial catalysts that created rock ’n’ roll in the sixties and seventies and, like Epstein, McLaren was a prophet preaching the impending revolution. He suggested that we might be able to do something together and would I go to see his band?
On 23 April 1976, I arrived at the Nashville Rooms on the corner where the Cromwell Road meets West Kensington, and was met by a very typical, smoky, stale-beer-smelling London pub. An assortment of bentwood chairs was lying in crazed lines about six rows deep and behind them stood a multitude of youngsters. Mainly, I seem to recall, standing around in old gabardine raincoats and tatty jeans.
After a delay, during which you could feel the energy in the room charging, the band emerged through the swirling smoke, and there they were, the Sex Pistols. My first impressions were that they looked dirty and shaggy. They looked like they had been sleeping rough for the last seven nights but, as they crashed into the first few chords, it became obvious that this was a new concept – fresh, spontaneous, aggressive and menacing, but totally unique. A far cry from the jaded supergroups of the early seventies. By the third song, I knew this band was going a long way and, with the surge of excitement at its peak, the looming menace snapped to outright mayhem.
I had noticed a couple sat near the stage who’d been squabbling throughout the opening of the set. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the girl stood up and started whacking the lad next to her. Arms flailing, teeth bared, she was ferocious. In the same moment, the band stopped mid-frenzied performance, whipped the guitars from their necks and flung them to the ground. Diving off the stage, they set about beating the shit out of the young man, who was still being attacked by this girl.
Chaos ensued, while the band’s drummer was struggling to get off his seat and around the drum kit, so that he could enter the affray. It must have been at least five minutes before peace was restored; the band then clambered back onto the stage to continue their performance.
I should say here that, aside from being incredibly sorry for the young man concerned, I was becoming increasingly convinced that this was a new band who could break the mould. That was until a moment or two later, when Johnny Rotten started marching up and down the stage screaming Nazi slogans, goose-stepping and doing the ‘Sieg Heil’ salute. This display, albeit mock fascism, was beyond the pale for me, and any interest I had in this band immediately dissipated.
In retrospect, I should have given them more time, but my initial reaction was to recoil. Freedom of expression always seemed to be one of the great prerogatives of rock ’n’ roll bands. Their message in the past had uniformly been one of love and freedom, so it was anathema to me to come across a band whose attitudes and postures appeared to encapsulate both fascism and evil. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was undeniably powerful.
The influence that pop music has had on the world order is, I think, far greater than that of the politicians and other media. It was the English and American rock ’n’ roll bands that rose like a gigantic wave crashing onto a thousand islands, flowing into every nook and cranny of the planet Earth. I’m sure it was fair to say that John Lennon’s name was known by almost every man, woman and child on this planet. I knew the Sex Pistols were the green light for the new order. They were so unique in the seventies that they had to be the procurer of a new wave.
I went away from this gig feeling enlightened. I was now convinced that we were entering a new phase of music. Punk was in the air. There was to be a sea change and I wanted to be in the middle of the new maelstrom. I made a conscious decision to keep my eyes open for the newly emerging bands.
Nearly a year later, on the evening of 2 March 1977, I found myself in a pub near Hammersmith called the Red Cow. I had arranged to meet Chris Parry, a relatively new A&R man from Polydor. I had first met him a few weeks earlier and discovered that he too felt that a major musical change was about to happen. He was having a great deal of difficulty persuading the ‘powers that be’ at Polydor that changes were imminent and felt that a bit of muscle from me would not go amiss. So we kindred spirits came together on the night in question.
I’ve written here the quote from my diary that night after the show; a diary that I still have to this day:
We arrived about nine o’clock to find about a hundred young people between the ages of 16 and 23. Their hair was unusually cut ‘short short’, and to a man they all wore Burton or Hepworth black suits with thin black ties. They all danced as if on pogo-sticks. I think I’ve found the new Beatles, and they are going to be huge.
Looking back at this particular diary entry, it makes me chuckle. It seems more like a quote from Dr Livingstone’s journal, on blundering into the celebrations of an undiscovered African tribe, than a gig review. The thrill of such an exciting discovery, though, was one I shared with him.
The band was a three-piece: guitar, bass and drums. They shrieked raw energy and were called the Jam. They were under starter’s orders, the tapes were up; this then, was the start of another decade of British music. I must confess at the time that I believed the Jam could be almost as important as the Beatles. As it transpired, it was not the music of the Jam that restrained them, but Paul Weller’s attitude to the media.
More of this later, but back to that night in March.
The Jam were managed by the lead singer’s dad, John Weller. John stood about five-foot-six tall and probably four feet wide. He had been a bricklayer by trade, and he used his van to ferry the boys and their equipment to gigs. John was one of those great characters that rock ’n’ roll throws up, and when he got agitated, he would stomp around like a bull in a record shop. There were no grey areas with John Weller.
Their performance made me determined to sign this band to a publishing deal, which I did. The morning after the Red Cow gig, I went to Polydor to meet with John and the band and showed them a publishing contract. Their reply was, ‘Let’s sign it now.’ I suggested that they may want a lawyer to look over it, to which they replied, ‘It’s great, let’s just sign it.’ In my diary of that day, I actually stated how flabbergasted I was that bands never learn, always ready to sign without taking legal advice; fortunately for them they were in good hands, they signed, and there were never any complaints.
At the end of the day, the only thing that counted with John Weller was the money. Because of his initial lack of experience as a manager, it fell on me to act as adviser in this respect, which I was more than happy to do.
I started a brand-new company and as my son Jamie had been born just six months prior I decided to call the company And Son Music, and the Jam’s copyrights were the first to be published by my new company.
Some ten years later, wanting to buy an office block in Bayswater, I suggested to Dick Leahy that maybe our very successful business should buy And Son Music off me for the then princely sum of £130,000. Dick thought this figure to be far in excess of what the catalogue was worth so, in order to prove him wrong, I offered it to EMI, who paid the asking price. Point proven, but catalogue lost – sometimes I think I am mental.
Anyway, Chris Parry signed the band to Polydor and, in May 1977, their first single was called ‘In the City’ and reached number 40. Their second single, ‘All Around the World’, nearly broke into the British Top 10 and the group embarked on a successful British tour. Chris and I had been proved right – the Jam looked poised to take on the world.
One of the reasons for signing the Jam was because nobody wanted bands like them in the music business. Many of my old acquaintances knew of the existence of these punk bands, some before I did, but those movers and shakers in their positions of power didn’t understand their music and so I was able to sign them relatively easily. As it turned out there were others like them – the Clash and the Boomtown Rats – all waiting to happen, and boy, did they happen.
From 1977 onwards, the Jam’s career flourished and grew. The one thing that was to hold them back internationally was Paul Weller’s arrogance. It was more ignorance really, and it was to stop them becoming world-class players. It seemed that the more their popularity grew, the more stubborn Paul became. Sticking to his punk-rock principles, he was wary of press and playing the ‘media game’.
When you become an international celebrity, certain things are expected of you. Even the most outrageous of acts finally has to sit down with a middle-aged television presenter, or a reporter. Paul never quite came to terms with the fact that his rebellion against the system could go only so far, he also needed that system to spread his message. Without television, radio and the press, the word could not be carried to the more remote corners of the earth.
I will never forget one such occasion on the West Coast of the USA, in April 1978, when the band performed at the Starwood, in Santa Monica. It also turned out to be, in my opinion, the demise of world conquest for the Jam.
The auditorium was packed to capacity and as the band appeared onstage, the audience went totally crazy. This was one of their first major gigs in America since they’d supported Blue Öyster Cult on a try-out tour a year earlier. We all knew after five minutes of watching this seething, hysterical mass of kids that we were about to crack the States. It was a repeat of the performance at the Red Cow, right down to the fans dressing as their heroes, except there were up to 5,000 at this one.
The concert finished, the band was slumped in corners of their dressing room, and acolytes were squeezing in through the half-open dressing-room door. All around, the air was electric. The sense of knowing that America was at our feet was as heady as drowning in a large vat of wine. Some time went by when, on my travels between the venue manager’s office and the dressing rooms, I noticed a group of seven or eight people waiting patiently on chairs along a corridor. They had been there for about forty-five minutes to my reckoning.
I finally approached one of them, who introduced himself as a music journalist from the New York Times. He said he’d really enjoyed the gig and desperately wanted to interview Paul Weller, as he planned a big story about the new wave of English music. The others then introduced themselves and it became clear that a large and very important part of the US media was represented: Rolling Stone magazine, Los Angeles Times, various radio and TV stations. They were all in our clutches, waiting for us, ready to spread the gospel.
I explained that it would be impossible for Paul to do individual interviews, as we were in a desperate hurry to leave for our next gig.
‘Perhaps,’ one of them suggested, ‘we could do a sort of mini press conference, which would take less of Paul’s time, but achieve the same purpose?’
‘Great!’ I replied. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll put it together.’
I ducked back inside the boys’ dressing room, beside myself with the news. The room was vibrant – after a gig like that, there is an immense feeling of ‘Yes!’ The roadies were busying themselves and a few new hangers-on were making their pitches.
‘Paul, Paul.’
‘Yeah,’ came his response.
‘Out there are several of the most important people in American media. They all loved the show and want to do a mini press conference. This is it, Paul. The one we’ve been waiting for. The big one!’
He stood up, shoulders hunched, and slouched down the corridor to where the press were waiting expectantly. He stopped in front of them, stood for a second stock still, and then in his usual fairly direct manner said, ‘I’ve got more important fucking things to do than doing interviews with you lot. I should be signing autographs out there for my fans.’
Then he pursed his lips, spat on the floor and strode past them. Other expletives were heard as he made his way down the corridor to where some fans were waiting. My mouth dropped open. I looked at the assembled hacks, almost speechless, and mumbled something of an apology. At the same time, I realised that the Jam had possibly thrown away the best opportunity they were ever going to have, kissing goodbye to the USA forever.
This was to prove to be the case. They never had a hit in the States. It was a travesty, but one that I had seen occurring in different forms on so many occasions. In the case of the Jam, it was an unmitigated disaster, because here was a great band whose rawness and strength were supplemented by one of the great songwriters of the seventies.
I returned to England feeling totally depressed. I hated to see talent like that wasted. Over the next year, the Jam released the album All Mod Cons, which reached number 6 in the UK album charts, but they were still struggling to achieve their first Top 10 single.
Then, in the summer of 1979, I received a phone call from them one afternoon saying that they had finished recording their new album, Setting Sons, and that I should come down to the Virgin Studio in Shepherds Bush to have a listen. I arrived to find the usual discussion that comes at the end of a recording session. Everyone seemed to have a different favourite track that they were convinced should be the next single.
I settled down to hear the playback and was delighted to hear one great track after another; it was obviously going to be a strong release. And then it hit me, the stirring opening chords as ‘Eton Rifles’ blared out.
‘That’s it!’ I shouted out. ‘That’s the one, it’s a definite smash. It has to be the next single.’
A word with Chris Parry and it was to be. ‘Eton Rifles’ shot to number 3 in November 1979 and the Jam were on the map. What a song, what a record. It deserved to be huge and it was. Four months after this, their next release, ‘Going Underground’, went straight to number one in the charts, a rare feat in those days. In the years I worked with them, they had four number ones – ‘Start!’, ‘Town Called Malice’ and ‘Beat Surrender’ were the titles of the other three.
Their albums were also extremely successful and many of them reached the top ten on the album charts; The Gift, which was released in 1982, making number one. Shortly after this, Paul Weller in his wisdom decided to break up the Jam and pursue new ideas; nothing wrong with that, except that the band was never given full lease and they never achieved their full potential.
By the time of Setting Sons, Paul’s songwriting had matured and combined social comment with pop sensibilities. His songs were quintessentially British and the subject matter struck a chord with their fans, who heard their feelings and frustrations echoed in the lyrics. I believe that his songs like ‘Eton Rifles’ and the haunting ballad ‘English Rose’ will become a part of pop legend.
During my time with the Jam, I had signed two other artists, although neither of them had the potential of the former.
One was a band called Secret Affair, who had a considerable amount of success and two Top 20 records – their lead guitarist, Dave Cairns, being one of the few artists I managed who was eventually to become a good friend of mine.
The other was John Otway. Although having achieved only one Top 30 record, ‘Really Free’, with Wild Willy Barrett, he was nonetheless one of the lovable eccentrics of the British music business.
His timing proved to be immaculate. Almost to the day his record reached number 27 in December 1977, his recording contract with Polydor terminated. So here he was – a big record, no contract. The most perfect place for a recording artist to be. The record company, on the other hand, found themselves in the embarrassing position of losing an artist at his most successful. John asked me if I would negotiate a new contract with whomever I chose, and Polydor was my first stop.
For John, it was one of the greatest deals ever. Polydor signed him to a five-album deal. He was paid a small fortune and it was no less than he deserved. He spent most of it in a few years. I asked him later what he’d done with all this money. John stood there in his odd socks and this black suit that had become shiny with the years, and his open-top white shirt. His reply to my question was very simple.
‘Spent it. But it was sure fun.’
His first single after the new contract had been signed was called ‘Geneva’, and I suppose in a way it showed me how wrong you can be about a song. I thought this one was going to be a giant. It flopped and so John joined the ranks of yesterday’s rock stars.
Another project that I really enjoyed being involved in during this period happened quite innocently. When lunching one afternoon with David Wigg, who was and still is one of the great music journalists, reminiscing about our golden days back in the sixties, he happened to mention that he had interviewed many, if not all of the huge artists of the day, and that at home in his attic he had boxes and boxes of taped interviews.
A man eager to embrace new technologies, he had foregone the shorthand notebook and recorded all his meetings with these idols. He said that he was about to jettison the lot and felt that, although they had historic value, he had absolutely no use for the tapes.
‘Who have you got on these tapes?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got Bowie, the Who, Jagger, the Beatles …’
‘The Beatles?’ I cut him short. ‘What have you got on the Beatles?’
‘Oh, hours of conversation on all sorts of topics with John, Paul, George and Ringo.’
‘Listen, send me a couple of cassettes and I’ll have a listen,’ I said. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘No problem. I’ll have them around to you in a couple of days.’ Then, sensing that I obviously had a scheme whizzing around in my brain, he leant over and asked, ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘I’ll let you know tomorrow,’ was my reply.
Having heard the tapes a day or two later, I rang David back to explain my idea. If he had a load more material, in the same vein, we could put together a project and call it The Beatles Tapes from the David Wigg Interviews. David loved the idea, a small studio was booked, and we spent many enjoyable hours listening to these tapes and re-recording them to a releasable quality. Between them they narrated the complete history of the Beatles from the early days in Merseyside, continuing right up until the mid-seventies.
Having put together an album with some instrumental versions of Beatles songs by the Martyn Ford Orchestra, the rest being oral interviews, I negotiated a deal with Polydor, and the double album package was released in July 1976, finally reaching a position of number 45 in the LP charts. It was a fun project and maybe it seems trivial today, but my money is on some of those records becoming real collectors’ items in the decades to come.
After the collapse of the Bill Gibb fashion business and having had it all, at the age of thirty-seven I was now skint, boracic, up the Khyber and Donald Ducked. Having paid off all the debts, I was left owning one small publishing company, with a rather large overdraft hanging over it.
It didn’t take long for me to decide to go back into the industry that I loved. I had this feeling that a radical change was about to take place and I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to return full-time to the music business that had given me shelter and sustenance for the last seventeen years.
The lease had now expired on my offices in Bruton Place, so the first thing to do was look for a new office from which to work. I soon found the property I wanted with the prestigious address of 1 Hyde Park Place. The landlord offered me a five-year lease, but I told him I couldn’t possibly entertain anything for that length of time. After some discussion, he insisted the minimum period he would grant was a year. Being extremely unsure of the future, I refused to sign anything longer than a three-month term with ongoing three-monthly options.
He finally acceded to this request and in the Christmas of 1978, Cora and I moved into the office, which was actually a residential flat. It was filled with all sorts of inconceivable bad taste, from floral sofas to worn and stained carpets, flocked table lamps, and pine beds of horrendous design.
The landlord insisted that anything removed would have to be replaced in perfect order, so I had the whole lot packed up and moved into storage, where it was to remain for eight years. Later, I estimated that the cost of storing it with Pickfords for this length of time amounted to more than four times the furniture’s value, but I wasn’t to know this at the end of 1978. I was only pleased to feel settled, so I could now get back on course.
• • •
The Jam’s recording of ‘Eton Rifles’ was inspired by a ‘Right to Work’ march organised by the Socialist Workers Party, which had started out in Liverpool and passed through Eton College on its way to London. As the demonstrators marched down Eton High Street, they were heckled and jeered by several Eton pupils, causing the marchers to react angrily, and resulting in a street battle between the opposing sides. Paul Weller saw this as a typical example of British class war.
Years later, the Conservative prime minister David Cameron, an Old Etonian, proudly named ‘Eton Rifles’ as one of his favourite songs, because he had trained in Eton’s combined cadet force, founded in 1860 as the Eton College Rifle Corps. Cameron claimed he had been a big fan of the Jam, adding, ‘I don’t see why the Left should be the only ones allowed to listen to protest songs.’
Weller responded with disbelief, telling the New Statesman magazine, ‘Which part of it didn’t he get? It wasn’t intended as a fucking jolly drinking song for the cadet corps!’