Tanner Francis, from being on the brink of something, that most likely would have gone on to attain the legendary status of the bands that emerged from The Riders lead, had seen it disappear from within his grasp. Had he been unlucky, or maybe fortunate to be there in the first place? Depending on mood, he could see it both ways. He felt lucky to have discovered them when he did. The visit to the Queen's Head, and his chance encounter, was for sure, exactly that. Even Lennon and McCartney were fortunate enough to live in the same neighbourhood, and so, he reasoned that even sheer good luck, had to be an intrinsic part of any success story.
He prided himself on the fact that it was he, and he alone, who'd seen enough at the Queen's Head to return the following day, and make himself known to the drummer, working in the bar below. From then on it was fairly straightforward. Tanner had introduced himself to the band at a rehearsal, a few days later. Not entirely sure, at this point, what it was that managers did, or didn't do, he decided to follow his father's strategy.
“...If you're not sure, son, then just act like you are.....The world hates a ditherer.”
He wasn't totally convinced, but it had worked in the world of banana retail, and so, sensing that these boys didn't have much empathy with dithering, he figured it was better than nothing. Also, he decided to dress for the part. A charcoal black, pinstripe suit, with wide lapels, and a black shirt. It had a forties feel, and gave him an almost gangster air.
“You guys are fucking brilliant, and I'd like to get the world to know that. If you're interested, I've got a plan to help you, us even, get this show on the road. If you'll let me on board as your manager, I reckon we could turn that around in about six months.....What do you say ?”
“Ow ya' gonna do that then, big guy ?” Damon sneered at him, as if he heard this all the time.
Perhaps he did, perhaps they all did. Tanner was playing a blind hand, and didn't have any idea if they'd already been approached. He wasn't even certain that they didn't already have a manager, a proper manager, one who knew exactly what he was doing, and a track record to prove it. He decided to press on. He figured he had one chance to get this right. Then he heard himself say......
“I, am going to do that by.....” he glared at Damon, then walked slowly, very slowly, around the room, looking directly into the eyes of each member in turn..........
“..no, WE, are going to do that, by working as a team. I don't manage anybody else, never have in fact, but I have seen other managers..” he hadn't. “..and from what I see, they're no more than chancers, taking their ten percent, and only interested in flogging their bands off to the highest bidder, then moving on to the next.”
“I propose no contract, I will take full responsibility for booking shows, and fund your album. Self produced, no labels dictating what you are going to play, wear, or how you are going to act. We won't be going cap in hand to anyone. They will come begging to us. All I ask is your loyalty to me, and I will protect your interests....”
Michel looked up slowly, and nodded...Tanner continued.
“...you decide everything regarding the music, I will do everything else......”
“What's innit for you then ?” Damon asked, less confrontational now.
“The challenge, I don't need the money”...he did. “I want to beat the system at their own game. Give me a year, at the outside, then you can decide if I'm worth anything”
Damon pushed his bottom lip out, looked to the floor, and nodded. Nobody said anything. Then Marrat suddenly broke the silence.
“D'accord, it works, lets do it” The others looked at him, then one by one, nodded their approval.
Of course it worked, it was the only offer they'd had, and luckily for Tanner, Marrat liked his altruistic tack. And that was it, Tanner had made up the strategy on the spot, but it seemed to strike a chord. He realised he'd committed himself financially, but figured had enough to see it through. A week in a studio, and a short print run for an album.......probably three or four grand. He could handle that. Even if he sold them all, he'd be out of pocket, but he would own the recordings. They'd negotiate later, but now, he had his band, and they were prepared to trust him.
Tanner's guesstimates proved to be correct. He could do nothing but trust his instincts, and be thorough in his enquiries. He found a decent studio with an experienced producer, and the band delivered. Two months later, they'd recorded their album, and so, he reasoned, he did deserve some credit, and it couldn't all have been luck alone.
By the time they'd done The 100 Club, he was sure he'd pulled it off. He would now have to cut a deal with the band of course, but he felt he'd kept his side of the bargain, and didn't see a problem. Then Marrat vanished, and it all went tits. It was a strange event. Nobody had even realised that he'd disappeared until a week after the show.
He lived in a small, dilapidated flat, in a fifties tenement block, not far from Kennington Oval. Sparsely furnished, a mattress on the floor, and curiously, a battered unstrung double bass in the corner of a single room, its only........decoration of a sort. He kept his clothes in a hefty French, street trader suitcase. Apart from that, there was nothing, not even a chair, except for about thirty books, some tapes and a small radio cassette player. The books were mostly poetry and politics, and typically in French. One was by Rimbaud, and the room probably mirrored the one he himself had occupied, around a hundred years ago, a few miles away in Camden Town.
Marrat lived a solitary life. He smoked, but didn't appear to drink much or use any drugs. Even Michel, although related, scarcely knew him. They travelled together for rehearsals, but otherwise, they had little in common. Nobody ever saw his bare hands either, except for his right hand, which was revealed during gigs. That was the only time he didn't sport two tight black leather riding gloves. No one questioned it. He always wore them.
Having vanished, his flat was searched, but revealed little. His passport was missing, but that was it. The lack of passport, perhaps, revealed that there was some intent to his disappearance, and that he hadn't just, 'done himself in', but the fact was, nobody knew anything. Police investigations revealed nothing, and after a month with still no news, Tanner convened a band meeting. They all knew it was the end.
Marrat, as well as writing all the lyrics, had even written the music by proxy. He didn't play an instrument, but was able to direct Damon into the rhythms and chords that he desired, via vocal annunciations. Against that scenario, it was obvious that he was irreplaceable, and The Belleville Riders were no more. Tanner, having made not much contact with any of the London music scene, outside of his involvement with The Riders, was back to square one.
This was a deliberate ploy, of course, and part of his strategy in becoming their manager, to remain out of touch with the industry, until the time was right. Now the time was right, he had nothing to sell, and worst of all, he'd blown most of his savings on producing the album. He did try for a while to find another band to manage, but nothing lived up to what he'd just experienced. Nothing else was as original. Eventually, and reluctantly, he returned back to the banana stalls, and tried to build up some funds for some, as yet unknown, future ventures.
A few years passed, and nothing much happened for Tanner. Money became harder to make, as supermarkets began to eat into the street market scene. In the meantime, Damon and Clifford drifted through a series of bands, sometimes together, but mostly separate ventures, and ultimately with the same, dead end results. Clifford continued, but only sporadically, alternating weekend drumming, with working in, and ultimately running his father's pub. Damon, however, despite the lack of success, never let up, and developed into a versatile guitarist. He loved music, and never stopped playing, scraping a living, ever hopeful perhaps, that eventually, it would one day click. Michel, having finished his studies at Goldsmiths, never played in a band again. Around 1983, and unable to find much suitable work, he relocated to Paris, along with his parents, who had become disillusioned with Thatcher's Britain.
It turned out to be a smart move, as not long after, he began a career as a writer and illustrator of graphic novels. He achieved success, by producing a series of novels featuring, his now legendary, Leonardo character, and by the early nineties, Michel Lenoir, as he was now known, had become something of a French icon.
With his market business now on the wane, Tanner had decided on one last stab at a career in the music industry. He'd spotted a need around London, for a function band agency. Money was now flowing around the city, people partied, and needed entertaining. Tanner was perfect for this. He was skilful at dealing with the public, and offered himself as the perfect middleman between artist and client. Colony Room Entertainments, (in honour of his mother) soon built up a roster of acts that were always busy. Tanner enjoyed meeting clients, and together with his stylish appearance, became increasingly successful at promoting his artists at exclusive events.
Then, by around 1990, he managed to broker a deal with an Australian tribute band, and brought them to London. It was a great success, and Tanner quickly saw a gap in the market. Within a couple of years his agency had the most select roster of tribute bands anywhere in the country. Business boomed, as did his reputation, and by his fortieth birthday in '95, he felt he'd finally achieved some independence. Although, still a small fish, it was a case of so far, so good. He never stopped hankering after mainstream success however, and so from time to time, he kept his eye out for an original band, and perhaps one more shot at the big time.
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