Tom Purdew Pt.6 - Television Trauma

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A cautionary tale for young musicians.

It is sometime in the early eighties.
R__, a BBC TV producer who frequents our local pub and brays a lot, unexpectedly turns up at one of my gigs and afterwards sidles up to me to ask if I'd like to do the theme tune and incidental music for a new prime-time TV series he has commissioned.
It's a half-hour quiz show to go out at seven PM.
It is called "Commuter Quiz" and involves teams solving Times crossword clues (the irony of my leaving music to become a commuter and do crosswords on trains is not lost on me). Not the most exciting of prospects but there's money involved so yeah, right; like I'm gonna say "no" …

"Right on, man." says R__, as ever ten years behind in street talk.
Oh, I forgot to say: the man is a dick. He is so full of himself that he leaks out and leaves a trail of slime wherever he goes. You know the type: "big" in regional TV, sports car, young girlfriend, sad bastard; the sort of guy who will grow up to become Alan Partridge. A prize twat.

At the gig, however, I know him merely as a loud asshole name-dropper who happens to be a TV producer. I have yet to discover the "useless tit" side of him.

A week goes by and he tracks me down and informs me that the studio is booked and tells me the place, date and time. He is vague about what precisely I will be recording and with whom but I don't mind that; I love coming in to a band or studio cold and being thrown in at the deep end. It's more fun that way.

The appointed place at the appointed hour.
Seagull Studios in Lowestoft. I've recorded here before and know the engineer (who happens to be blind but a damned good engineer regardless of that), so we chat away over coffee and wait for the rest of the musicians and for R__ with the music.

After a little while, in walks Ian L__, an old friend who is a top banjo player. We do the huggy, greety thing and start to relax. At least with Ian there I know that we are likely to be playing something country or bluegrass tinged and so can get in to the right mindset. I've brought my Martin acoustic as well as a load of electric gear, so no problem there.

Aha … HERE is the problem … R__ …
In he walks, fashionably late (we have already set up and sorted levels and are jamming away happily).
Walking nervously behind him is a very, very young girl. This turns out to be B__, his friend's daughter whom R__ wants to get in to bed and who has not only never sung over headphones before but has never been in a studio or even sung into a microphone. Never mind the fact that she looks about twelve.

It is then that R__ informs us that:
(a) There are no other musicians booked. He knows we are both multi-instrumentalists and so can save some of his budget by getting us to play everything ourselves;
(b) B__ is not a kid he has brought along to watch, but will in fact be singing the theme tune, and;
(c) There is no music except a vague concept in R__'s tiny head.

What he has instead is a small scrap of paper on which he has written some of the most trite and embarrassing lyrics ever penned. Lyrics that squirm with shame before we can even finish reading them; lyrics that neither rhyme nor scan without suffering serious torture.

He then makes things worse by singing them.
R__ cannot sing or write music any more than he can write lyrics.
Ian and I wince at one another, then go into a huddle in the drum booth while R__ attempts to interfere with the unfortunate young girl in front of the blind engineer (this is all absolutely and cringe-inducingly true).
We make a terrible decision.
We can simply pack our gear and leave, but - being young and foolish - we decide "Hey, the money's good; let's just record the fucking thing and get the hell outta here."

So …

I set up the drums and Ian picks up my acoustic in the other room and we lay down a basic track.
R__ is ecstatic.
We take the minimum amount of time to overdub guitar, banjo, keyboards and a few little fills of twiddly lead guitar between the lines.
Then we grab more coffee while poor B__ is stood, shaking with nerves in the vocal booth.

She cannot sing.

B__ actually has quite a pleasant little voice sitting in the room with us, running through the lines and trying to force them to scan, but put her in the vocal booth and sheer terror takes over.

I say to R__ "Let us record an instrumental version while B__ gets used to singing to foldback", in case the show needs incidental music.
But the pervy twat is so desperate to finish up in the studio so he can have more time to pressure B__ into sex before he has to get her home to her parents that he vetos that and forces the money into our hands.
Ian and I pack our stuff and hit the road.
We cannot look.
That poor little girl. After the terror of the vocal booth she will have to face the unutterable horror of the predatory R__ on the drive home.

Naturally, Ian and I assume that the results of the night's "musical" debacle will be scrapped but we have been paid, so we are happy bunnies.

Yes, you know full well what happens …
R__ turns up a week later all full of smiles and congratulations.
Que?
The TV series is due on air in a few weeks time.
WHAT THE FUCK?
I mean, we didn't actually record anything remotely usable. There was no incidental music for a start.
Don't worry, says R__; all that has been sorted out, and he saunters off, smiling proudly.
Oh fuck.

So here we are, sitting in front of a TV with a bunch of people waiting to see just what R__ has managed to do. Has he come to his senses and hired another bunch of musos and let them record something worthwhile?
Has he fuck …

"Nationwide" with good old Sue Lawley fades into the credits and the BBC East logo comes up. The announcer introduces a new series and there's a piece of twiddly guitar that is definitely me.
And then.
Poor B__ must have died a million deaths that night … and every night afterward for the entire run.

Oh dear …
The engineer has done his best. He has artificially double tracked B__'s voice to beef it up and has cut short the wavering notes, filling the gaps with reverb to cover the faltering pitch …
Actually, our playing is fine and as long as you aren't fussy you may not notice the fact that this poor little girl has never used a proper mic before. I just pray that she hasn't made her nightmare complete by succumbing to R__'s odious advances.
And so, after an initial cringe, the show turns out to be quite watchable until …
… the scores come up between each round and all R__ has done is to put on the backing track to the theme tune with the vocals taken out.
No incidental music, just a boring backing track with little filigree lead guitar fills at the end of each glaringly empty line.
It would have taken me no more than ten minutes to put down some instrumental fills, but no; R__ just wanted us out of the studio so he could work on poor B__ …
I try to burrow my head through the solid floor in shame. This goes on for the whole series.

And to pile on the agony, the damned programme is brought back for another series …
And another …

Alas and alack, for verily the gods of shame and embarassment do crap in mine hat and do squish it down upon mine head.

Epilogue:
Shortly before the programme airs, B__ informs R__'s girlfriend of his behaviour and she leaves him, taking his sports car.
The girlfriend phones me and tells me that R__ has trousered at least ten times what we were paid as his budget for session musicians.
We tell him - somewhat forcefully - how we feel about this.
R__ leaves town.
I learn never to accept TV work except through my agent.
I learn to use aliases when recording for other people.
Thankfully, we notice that the credit for "Music" at the end of the show has R__'s name, not our own (phew).

True story.