I
Specialising in promoting quality, high end tribute acts, Tanner Francis, towards the end of the nineties, acquired one band that, although no one could call bottom of the barrel, certainly had a somewhat unreliable quality, or how Tanner eventually preferred to think of as, esoteric.
Stoned Again, were a tribute to the Rolling Stones, a London based outfit, formed and fronted by Jack Renard, a truly maverick entertainer. By this period, Colony Room had a full roster of successful acts, and for some time had refused to take on anything new. Tanner considered that he already had the finest tribute bands available, and unlike some competitors that had recently sprung up, he decided to offer only one act, for each for each artist covered. It was, to his way of thinking, devaluing his 'best in business' standing by offering alternatives. Perhaps, it was also a throwback to the logic of his father, who only sold one product on his stalls. In doing so, he'd built a reputation of quality, and for Tanner, it felt a logical way to set him apart from the rest.
One day in '99, however, a call came in from a client, requesting Stoned Again for an event he was planning. Tanner had never heard of them, he didn't need to. He already represented what was widely acknowledged to be, the best Stones tribute band in the country and, as he began to underline the point, by extolling their not inconsiderable CV, he was cut short...
“....I know about them, and yes, I've booked before. They're very good, but they're still just a tribute band, aren't they ?”
Tanner, slightly stumped, asked him to explain. It turned out that this client was a wealthy individual, who wanted to hold a concert cum party, in the grounds of his country estate. He wanted something as close to the feel of the the real Rolling Stones themselves, and not just in a musical sense. He explained that he'd recently visited a socialite friends birthday party, where by chance he'd seen Stoned Again performing......and acting disgracefully. He loved it, and so did everybody else, apparently. Exploits of drunken debauchery, before, during, and especially after the show, had left him with the impression that these guys actually lived like this.
“I have to say, it made your usual tributes seem a little tame by comparison, I'm afraid. You know, we had such a great time with those chaps, so I'd like you, Mr Francis, to get them for me. If they're already booked, then un book them, I want that band at my event, and if you are the best, then you will get them.”
By the end of the conversation, Tanner had realised who exactly he'd been speaking to......
Simon Palmersley was indeed, an obscenely wealthy man. Heir to his industrialist father's fortune, this man could afford to hire the real Rolling Stones, but no, he wanted Stoned Again. Tanner had run across this sort before. They were the type of people who usually got what they wanted, and inhabited a world unknown to most. High powered connections and friends meant that generally anything goes, and that was the point with this unusual request.
In a world where almost anything could be bought for a price, the search to find something fresh and exciting was always paramount. Merely flaunting ones financial clout wasn't enough. Palmersley wanted his friends entertained and shocked into the bargain. He felt he'd seen something in Stoned Again that he considered unique, and furthermore, would act as a catalyst, to spark a party not to be forgotten. In the world of function bands, the artist was only ever an employee of the client, providing a musical service. It was enough to turn up on time, play the show, and at the end of the day, pack up and go home. They mostly busied themselves by honing and perfecting their musical skills, but that was all. It was, after all, a job like anybody else, and the musicians had lost sight of what had inspired the music in the first place.
To some extent, even the bands that they emulated, and probably none more so than The Rolling Stones themselves, had created something of a myth. In creating a career of longevity, the lifestyle of excess could not have continued as one might imagine. For many years, since it had become big business, tours needed to be fulfilled, and albums made. And they were. Wild children that never learned to wise up, usually imploded, or worse. That brief moment, where shimmering talent could live alongside the 'esprit de vie' which fuelled it, was transient.
Tanner understood this, and began to realise what Palmersley was driving at. Imagining the scenario of the real Stones turning up, was almost certain to disappoint. Sure, they'd play their songs and probably sign some autographs, but Palmersley was beyond that. He knew well, that in effect, they had almost turned into a parody of themselves, or at least, an expensive homage to a forgotten world. When one thought of it, when was the last time any major artist had a hit that could live alongside anything that they'd produced in their heyday?
Tanner decided to make some enquiries about Stoned Again. Feedback began to trickle in, mostly from agents, who at some point had crossed paths with the band. Tanner became intrigued. Some agents flatly refused to work with them. Usually this involved tales where the band had been booked to play at wedding parties.
“The bastard had this trick of getting the bride and bridesmaids up on stage to help him sing along with the last song of the night........ then proceeded to grope some arses, while they'd all be too embarrassed to move” was one particular account, that made Tanner wince.
Further responses appeared to vary. Some said they were great but.......
“You gotta keep that singer away from the booze....”
One agent pointed out that the quality of their performances depended mainly on which line up they used. It transpired there was quite a turnover in band members, as Renard was unable to keep a stable line up together for long. He did concede, however, that on their day, and in the right conditions, they were indeed, a rather entertaining band. Eventually, Tanner ran across someone who'd actually played in the band. Neil Holt was a bass player who'd spent a couple of years in Stoned Again. His story told Tanner exactly what needed to know.
“Its a wank band....I always used to say that in the beginning, but you know ? I had more fun with them than any I've played in since. The thing is with Ren (as he called him) he sees himself not just as a musician, but an artist. 'Exploring the boundaries' was how he described it, and with Ren, well he really knows how to do that. He's a punk at heart, but missed his chance with anything original. Now he needs the money, so he's stuck in this bloody tribute band, which is the only thing that pays.”
“He don't like authority much, and has a massive ego, so if you're thinking of working with him, then you'll need to be canny. Let him feel he's in control, and book him the right kind of places, with a decent line up, and you might have something.”
Tanner realised the type of event that Palmersley was proposing, was exactly what Stoned Again were made for. He would have to choose bookings judiciously, though. It was obvious that weddings and conventional parties were a recipe for trouble, but rather like offering 'under the counter porn', to those seeking something of a more explicit nature, he felt he may be able to offer to clients, who......understood what they were after. He decided not to involve himself personally with the band, but rather, to conduct business via his assistant, Erica. She would be instructed to act in a confidential manner, advising rather than dictating, allowing Renard to feel he had some measure of control.
And so it was that Stoned Again were booked to play at Palmersley's private bash, represented by Colony Room, but kept off their normal promotional material, and with a special contract, created by Tanner, that made the band, and not Colony Room, liable for any ensuing 'misunderstandings'. The tactic worked perfectly. Prompted by the ever professional Erica, Renard picked his best line up, and the band duly performed. He himself, had been persuaded to arrive at the event much later than the band, just before show time, therefore ensuring moderate sobriety until the show began.
After the gig, the party, apparently, went with a bang in the way that was required, and the band didn't leave until late the next afternoon. No complaints were forthcoming, and indeed, slowly inquiries started to come in from the great and the good, who'd heard the news. With Tanner astutely controlling things remotely, and Erica handling things on the ground, the arrangement worked well, and continued like that for the next two years.
II
Peter thought back to Riverside, or whatever the fuck it was called, and imagined them now. They'd settle down to a movie, one that she liked, maybe a romance, a period piece, probably both. Perhaps Stoddart liked this shit, too. There'd be a massive screen, a broad, deep sofa. He'd lovingly slip his hand around her shoulder. He'd ask her if she was really all right. She'd nod, and dip her head affectionately under his chin. The film would end, there'd be a coffee, a proper one. Mr Stoddart would definitely have one of those machines. Peter tilted back the bottle again. They'd be off to bed now. It'd be a large room, softly lit, the bed.....firm and wide....white cotton sheets, no duvet........
.......and on that bed, he would gently, slowly, lovingly, make love........... to “My, fucking wife.”
He remembered those little moaning noises that she used to make. He remembered Timo's bandit face, high up on that olive thigh. Mr Stoddart clearly knew of Timo now. He grimaced at the thought, and stared into the carpet, took a slug, and then started to cry. His shoulders shook. Peter Husband began to feel sorry for himself. The sensation of crying, he'd not experienced for a long time. It felt strangely cleansing. He remembered the last time, when the news of his brother's death had ultimately been confirmed. That's what set this whole damn adventure off in the first place.
His mind scanned back nineteen years. April 1982. The Falklands War had just kicked off. A Belfast bar room brawl had ended in a punctured lung, disgrace, and embarrassingly invalided him out of the Army thirteen days before he was due to sail south. His brother went though, but never came back, and Peter had never forgiven himself. It was only the second time in his entire adult life, that he'd cried. Proper men didn't ever cry, his old man had always told him that.
He was tired now, he took a last drink, and decided that tomorrow, he'd be a real man again and track her down. It didn't matter how long it took, he'd find her, he'd get her back.
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