Polly Courtney - The Fame Factor

To all the unsigned artists out there.

Cover Page

Title Page The Fame Factor Polly Courtney

Prologue

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Backstage with Polly Courtney

Acknowledgement

About the Author

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Hutchinson cocked his head to one side and made a clicking noise with his tongue.

‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘Show us the DVD. But no promises.’

The large American rose from his seat as quickly as was possible for someone of his size and stature. ‘You’ll like this, I’m tellin’ ya,’ he said in his irritating, mid-Atlantic drawl.

The head of the label didn’t reply. Nobody told Edgar Hutchinson, President of Vicinity, one of Universal’s most successful commercial labels, what he would or wouldn’t like.

After much button-pressing, the blinds slithered down and a fuzzy image was projected onto the far wall. The American man sank back in his chair like a proud parent waiting for his child to appear in the school play. Slowly, the resolution improved and after a few seconds it became obvious what they were all looking at.

Hutchinson raised an eyebrow, taking in the long, denim-clad legs of the lead singer. Her dark hair was cut to chin-length and she had that doe-eyed, Keira Knightley thing going on.

‘So…’ He looked around at the other men, waiting for something to happen on the screen. ‘Do we have sound and light on this thing, or is it just a fancy photo frame?’

The American rolled his eyes. ‘Give it a mo.’

Hutchinson looked back at the image, letting his gaze roam over the rhythm guitarist, a gypsy type with dark, wavy hair and cat-like eyes. Then he saw the blonde on bass and laughed. ‘Who’s that – Britney Spears’s little sister?’

‘Hey,’ said the large man, twisting round in his seat and waggling a sausage-like finger. ‘Wait ‘til you hear ‘em.’

Several seconds passed. Hutchinson looked at his watch.

‘Look, Louis, I really don’t have time for a Girls Aloud remake or whatever this is. You know I don’t do girl-bands. They’re expensive, high maintenance and they don’t sell any records outside the UK.’

The American was shaking his head, poking buttons on the remote control like a baby with a new toy. ‘Huh. Looks like I had it on pause.’ He held the device aloft as he tried again. ‘No, believe me, this is not a girl-band.’

Suddenly, the room was filled with a very loud humming noise and the screen was filled with a wonky shot of the girls on stage. Hutchinson grimaced.

‘It’s a live recording,’ the big man explained.

‘God help us,’ muttered Hutchinson.

He was picking at the strip of skin by the side of his thumbnail when something made him look up.

Despite the background hum on the recording, it was just about possible to make out the vibe of the song. It wasn’t pop, exactly. Nor was it rock, or indie. Post-punk, maybe. Whatever it was, it wasn’t the sound he had expected to come from these cutesy chicks. For a start, the singer could sing. Hutchinson didn’t like to think of himself as sexist, but the fact was, girls didn’t usually make good musicians. This, though…It sounded like The Killers or The Thrills or something. There was, as the American had irritatingly pointed out, nothing girl-band about this group at all.

The guitarist’s quick-fingered solo was good. And he liked the way the buxom, blue-eyed drummer kept peeping out from behind her raven-black hair as she kept the beat. Even the mini-Britney was doable, too, if you were into the young girls thing. But Hutchinson’s attention kept flitting to the lead singer. She had the looks all right – porcelain face, bee-stung lips, long, Bambi legs and a decent rack on her, too – but better than that, she had presence. You could feel it, even by watching the shoddy, amateur recording.

‘Okay!’ he cried, looking away from the screen. The perpetual zooming in and out was making him feel seasick. ‘That’s enough.’

The DVD was switched off and the room became silent.

‘So…?’ said the American, after some time. ‘You wanna think about signing them?’

Edgar Hutchinson exhaled noisily and started tapping his fingertips on the desk. He did this for some time.

Eventually, he looked up.

‘No.’

‘What?’

‘No. I’m not going to sign them. I’ve got a better idea.’

‘This is an insult to my ears.’ Shannon angrily stuffed her earplugs into her ears and downed the remains of her beer.

Zoë persevered with tuning her guitar as the distorted noise continued to grind through the walls. She was concerned by the number of empty bottles at Shannon’s feet, but knew better than to aggravate the feisty Irish drummer when she was like this.

‘I’m sure we’ll be able to turn down these awards nights when your amazing campaign starts to pay off,’ Kate remarked quietly.

Zoë closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable retort. They’d been cooped up in the grotty backstage cell for nearly an hour and nerves were evidently beginning to fray. The promoter had lied about the timings. It was the usual stunt: goading the fans to arrive early and then forcing them to hear acts they didn’t want to hear whilst spending money in the overpriced bar. All gigs were a sham – even these so-called awards nights.

‘What did you say?’ snapped Shannon, removing an earplug and staring at Kate’s bowed head.

The bassist shrugged anxiously. ‘I just meant, I hope it was money well spent.’

Shannon sighed loudly and shook her head, looking at Zoë. ‘Did you hear that?’

Zoë held out her hand in a gesture of peace. ‘Let’s not—’

‘She has the cheek to criticise us for our efforts!’ cried Shannon.

‘Look…’ Zoë watched uneasily as the drummer began taking ever larger mouthfuls of beer.

‘Miss Sit-back-and-see! ‘ Another swig. ‘Like your efforts are going to propel Dirty Money into the global spotlight!’

Kate flashed a look of aggression that didn’t quite mask the pain in her eyes. Shannon’s remark was unfair. Kate did a huge amount to help promote the band; she just didn’t make a lot of noise doing it. However, for the promotion in question, it was fair to say that the bassist had played no part.

It was hardly surprising that Kate disapproved of their latest ploy for attracting the attention of major labels. She had never been one for taking risks – especially when money was involved. Ever prudent, the bassist liked to stay well within her safety zone. Shannon, however, had never been inside a safety zone.

The plan, executed by Zoë, as usual, was to send copies of their demo CD to the heads of the key record labels, along with photocopies of the review that had appeared – in microscopic proportions – in Mojo the previous month. The controversial part of the operation was the inclusion of a used ten-pound note (a fiver for indie labels) in each mailshot, representing ‘dirty money’.