Post #14 — DON'T go to the toilet when Chris Martin's about.

Last week ended with a top A&R man promising us “the recipe” from the other end of a urinal. June 2007 is the month it all arrived: the homecoming gig, 30 seconds of massive publicity (literally), the strangers in their thousands. But all of that is next week. First, June had some networking to do, which is the most important part of being in the music business.

11.06.07. Myspace friends: 4428.

“Ash (the band) bought me dinner on Friday at Wagamamas! Kate arranged it as they were playing a secret gig in Camden…we met up with their manager first and then went to the restaurant and there were they band! I sat just across from Tim Wheeler and we chatted for ages – he’s a really nice guy (I hope I stay that genuine if the band makes it!), and took a CD and promised to give it a listen.”

A CD, you say? Funny how those kept appearing.1 The evening goes on, and the diary keeps score like a man on safari ticking off animals:

“I chatted to their drummer for a while, and asked his advice about what to say to Geve ref his lack of practice outside of band rehearsals. He said we should tell him ‘You’re sacked!’…then we saw Chris Martin from Coldplay who the manager knows…I would have met him but made the mistake of going to the toilet! Haha! Second time I’ve been around him and not met…ah well, he’ll get lucky one day.”

Yes — for the second time in my life, I missed meeting Chris Martin, Chris Martin missed meeting me, this time because I was in the toilet. Readers of last week’s post will note that the toilet is becoming a recurring venue in this story. This is temporary. Anyway, the diary then concludes, with no irony whatsoever:

“Also flyered the whole place and toilets (Kate put them in the girls) so all those industry people will know about us! All in all, a damn fine evening of networking!”

Meanwhile, our promotional reach now extended to North Wales, where the promoter of our first ever Welsh gig had posted this listing. I reproduce the capitalisation faithfully:

“THIS WILL BE A NIGHT TO REMEMBER WE HAVE A GREAT BAND FROM LONDON TRAVELLING UP TO COLWYN BAY TO PLAY AT THE SKUNFISH PARTY NIGHT IT WILL BE A RARE CHANCE TO SEE THE FOXES ON THERE FIRST GIG IN COLWYN BAY WE BEGGED THEM TO COME UP AND THEY FINALLY AGREED SO BE THERE”

And as for the man with the recipe:

“I’m going to hold off calling Davey boy Ambrose until next week…it’s better if they chase us, as we’re the ones with the goods after all.”

We’re the ones with the goods. The strategy of a man holding four aces, deployed by a man holding a Hotmail account, a transit van and an EP with “She’s a Cow” on it.

18.06.07. Myspace friends: 4458.

”Last night Jonno and I went to one of the O2 after show parties (unofficial!) at The Embassy Club2 near Piccadilly. We were in Brighton but Darren3 sent a message at 10pm saying we were on the guest list so we drove up and got in the club about half twelve (well…I say “guest list”….a special £5 entry guest list!) The place was as full of beautiful women as it was stuck up and pretentious twats. Bottle of bud? £5. Music and dress was ultra trendy, and everyone was looking at each other to see if they were famous or important enough to talk to. Note to self – DON’T turn out like that. Or if you do, be ten times worse.”

A £5 guest list. The mathematics of being almost-famous: you get the list, and then you also get the bill. But “DON’T turn out like that. Or if you do, be ten times worse” remains, I think, the soundest career advice I have ever given myself.

Oh, and that bottle of Bud would be £9–10 today.

Then, at 4.30 that afternoon, the phone rang.

“UPDATE!! 4.30pm. Dave Ambrose just called me. I was going to call him this afternoon, but have been too busy – glad that he called, as it shows he’s keen and that we’re not desperate for an offer. Anyway, he said he wants to come and see us, so will be coming either Tuesday or Thursday this week…I read in the Metro that Sanctuary have just been taken over by Universal…so perhaps there IS life in the industry! I just know that I want to do music…now…urgently. Fingers crossed….To conclude – YIPEE!!!”

The chasing strategy had worked! Or he’d simply called, and I’d narrated it as my winning strategy. Either way: YIPEE.4

He didn’t come on Tuesday.

21.06.07. Myspace friends: 4474.

“Dave called on the Tuesday to say he couldn’t make it as he was knackered, but said that we shouldn’t think of his date changing as being a lack of interest – he said that he really likes the band, and really likes me as a songwriter and wants to see us. Also that he’d played our CD to some people who weren’t blown away by it, but he didn’t care!”

He’d played our CD to some people. They weren’t blown away. But he didn’t care! I’d like you to notice how the diary processes a piece of genuinely bad news — actual industry people, actually unmoved by our music — by wrapping it inside the good news that the man who signed the Sex Pistols (first mention of that ever) was loyal to us anyway. The exclamation mark is doing the work of a small crane.

The same entry records a drink with Kate from XFM, who had arranged the Ash dinner and was one of the few industry people who’d consistently helped us. So she’d earned the right to be honest:

”She also said that she didn’t think The Foxes would make it because there one no-one out there doing what we were doing and she didn’t see the demand for us, and thinks I would do better solo! I think there’s always a need for good music, and look forward to proving her wrong!”5

I remember thinking at the time that no-one was into what Blur were doing on their first two albums back when grunge was everything, and if there was truth to what she was saying, it was on that basis. So we’d still be huge. Eventually.

That same Thursday was one of the busiest days of my band-admin life. I’ll spare you most of it — there were emails to a producer who’d gone quiet and a man at NME trying to sell us an eighth of a page in the “souvenir” Glastonbury issue — but one exchange is too good to leave out. Because while The Foxes were preparing to share a main stage with The Magic Numbers, our covers-band alter ego The Hound Dogs had been approached to play St George’s students’ ball at Chelsea FC’s training ground. Alex, our bassist and in-house finance department, responded to the fee discussion at 3.57pm:

One band, two Summer Balls, the same week: on one stage, opening for a Mercury-nominated act at our old university; in another inbox, haggling over Geve’s £40 fuel money. If you ever want to know what “almost making it” actually consists of, it consists of both of those emails being true at once.

So that was the week before. The homecoming itself —6 the gig, the wonderful accident with our logo, a Mercury-nominated singer watching us from the wings — is next week. And it’s a good one.

Next week: we go back to Exeter to open for The Magic Numbers, our logo ends up massive on the wall behind the stage at exactly the wrong and exactly the right moment, and the photos finally arrive from the man who shot The Kooks.

Share