January 21st 1981
11.35 am
I’m in my usual place, at the back of the lecture room on the fifth floor of the Art Fac building. Instead of taking notes on the theories of some obscure American sociologist, I’m doodling sketches for the front cover of our imaginary debut album; the most eagerly anticipated piece of twelve inch vinyl since Unknown Pleasures by Joy Division. Well, it is to me anyway. In reality, I’m a nineteen year old student come lead singer in a band, with a couple of singles on a tiny independent label and a play or two on the John Peel show. But hey there’s no harm in dreaming and like our Manager says, anything is possible in the music industry.
I put my pencil down and stare out of the window as snow begins to fall on Coventry’s bleak, East European looking skyline. The shape of Jimmy Saville in a shell suit, surrounded by a gaggle of excited looking girls, comes into my mind. ‘Now then, now then, guys and gals,’ he says,‘here they are, all the way from Nottinghamshire, let’s give a big Top of the Pops welcome to the one...the only... B-Movie.’ The camera pans to the four of us looking mean and moody, draped over synthesisers and guitars, dry ice swirling around our torsos, our young and beautiful faces drawing gasps from the girls aching to get close. To me. Yes, me. A pop star. A God.
The dream is interrupted by a knock on the door. I’m back in the lecture room again.‘Urgent phone call for Steve Hovington,’ the woman at the door says. Shit! I hope something terrible hasn’t happened.
11.40 am
‘What? Are you being serious? When? An hour. You’re joking? OK! I’ll be ready.’
I calmly place the phone back on the receiver and thank the woman. She looks up at me, a smile briefly lighting up her face. Although she doesn’t know it, it’s the smile of an angel, an angel that’s just brought me the best news of my life.
1.30 pm
I’m sitting in the back of a Mercedes Benz, hurtling down the motorway at a hundred miles an hour. I can’t believe what’s happening. It feels like I’m being swept along on some crazy roller coaster ride bound for a world I’ve only dreamt about. A couple of hours ago I was just another student dreaming of the big time, now I’m on my way to record a single for Decca Records, the label that signed the Beatles, in a top recording studio with a famous record producer. Its all happened so fast I don’t even know which song we’ll be recording.
4.05 pm
‘Biggest fackin’ deal since the Rolling Stones,’ Stevo says as we arrive at the producer’s house to discuss tomorrow’s recording.‘And I got the fackers to sign Soft Cell too,’ he adds with a demonic chuckle.‘If you want B-Movie, you ‘ave to ‘ave Soft Cell, else the deal’s off.’
I couldn’t help scoffing. Soft Cell are the other band he manages. Nice lads but let’s face it, they’re never going to make it.
We squeeze onto the sofa and listen to the song we’re going to record. I’m surprised at the choice. I never had this one down as a single. You don’t normally hear an eight minute anti war song full of lyrics about soldiers being blown up and bodies thrown into unmarked graves on Radio One. It’s hardly going to cheer up a country beset by riots, IRA hunger strikes and possible nuclear meltdown. All they want to listen to is ‘De do do do, de da da da.’
‘Fackin’ top five,’ Stevo says as the song finishes,’ ‘Top fackin’ five, nothing less’ll fackin’ do.’ Jeez, only last week the height of my aspirations was the odd mention in the Electro-pop pioneers chart he runs in the NME. Now we’re challenging John Lennon RIP for the top spot of the national charts. How scary is that? Stevo’s a bit scary, especially since he’s had his head shaved apart from three dyed purple plaits that jut out comically from strategic points on his skull. It makes him look like a demented troll. I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of him, he’s from a rough housing estate in Dagenham and he’s getting into fights all the time. What’s even more scary is that he’s two years younger than me. But if it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be sitting here, the recipient of the biggest record contract since The Rolling Stones. Hmm, I wonder what that actually means.
January 22nd
11.15 am
I’m standing in the control room of Scorpio Sound Studios on the ground floor of Capital Towers. It’s like the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. I’ve never seen so many knobs and sliders. There are sixty four tracks and the biggest, loudest speakers you’ll ever see or hear. People are milling around me. People I’ve never seen before. Sound engineers, record company executives, tea boys and secretaries all pampering to my every need. As well as the hi-tech studio there’s a plush lounge with leather sofas, a pool table and the biggest televison I’ve ever seen. We’ve already located a porn film in the video cabinet. Can’t wait to watch it later. I’ve never seen one before.
2.50 pm
I’m tuning up my bass guitar ready for the take. It sounds ace through my brand new Ampeg rig. The producer is standing in the centre of the studio, pointing and waving his arms. He’s dead strict, like a school teacher. He keeps telling our keyboard player off for being too loud. We’ve never worked with a proper producer before so we’re not used to being told what to do. ‘Ready to roll guys,’ a voice says in my phones. I take a deep breath, clutch my plectrum tightly between my thumb and first finger and wait for the count in.
3.45 pm
I’m in the lounge with the woman from the record company marketing department. She’s showing me a picture of Jim Morrison, the lead singer of The Doors. I’ve vaguely heard of him. Wasn’t he a drug addict? She says I look like him and could see me in leather pants. I laugh nervously. I’m not sure modeling myself on a junkie that died really young is a good idea. She gives me a book about him called No-one here gets out alive. I hope it’s not some kind of omen.
January 23rd
11.50 pm
We’re standing around sipping Champagne in the record company building on New Bond Street. We’ve just signed the contract and are now officially Decca recording artists. We’re taking the piss out of our A&R man Stacey Barrett’s girly sounding name. We’re always taking the piss. Especially out of Soft Cell. They’re here too, sitting in the corner but no-one wants to talk to them. To be honest I feel sorry for them.
2.25pm
We’re not allowed in the studio until later this evening. The producer won’t let us anywhere near while he’s mixing the track. So we’re off to the Kings Road with the marketing woman to buy some clothes and have our hair cut. Then we’ve got a photo shoot for the cover of the single. I don’t know whose paying for all this but I’m not complaining.
6.45 pm
The photographer’s studio smells of cigarettes and kebabs. Ultravox are blasting out of the speakers. I’m staring into the camera with my hands in my pockets, a couple of paces in front of the others. I’ve got one of those Yasser Arafat style scarves around my neck. It’s meant to add a military twist to my look but the lads reckon it looks more like a tea towel. I’m a bit pissed on red wine. I don’t normally drink it. But they didn’t have any beer so we had to make do. We must have drunk at least two bottles between us.
‘One last reel then we’re done,’ the photographer says. Thank God! All I want to do is get back to the studio to hear the final mix.
8.30 pm
I’m sitting at the back of the studio as the song blasts through the speakers. I can’t believe it’s us. I’ve never heard anything so completely and utterly fantastic in all my life. The producer is a fucking genius. Every note, chord, sound, beat reverberates through my body with an intensity I’ve never felt before. I’m in heaven, surfing some tumultuous wave of sound as it builds towards the climax. I don’t want it to end. I want this moment to last forever.
‘Fackin brilliant.’ Stevo shouts out after three minutes forty five seconds of perfection. Stacey Barrett applauds. The engineer embraces the producer. The marketing woman beams and gives me the double thumbs up sign. Hands appear in front of me wanting to be shaked. I just sit there, stunned and unable to speak.
‘Let’s go and fackin’ celebrate,’ Stevo says.‘I’m doin’ a club night at Billy’s. Depeche’ll be there and this new banch ‘a cants from Birmingham called Duran Duran.’
I follow the crowd out of the studio and head for the bright lights of Soho. London belongs to us tonight. London. The city where dreams are made and ours are all about to come true.
