Gimme More (37 page)

‘But he
is
hurting you,' George says.

‘As for his forty-eight-hour deadline,' I say, smiling pleasantly at George, ‘here's one of my own: tell Nash that unless he comes up with an acceptable offer within forty-eight hours I will call a press conference in Hyde Park, at the site of Jack's last free concert, and I will explain the situation and then publicly burn all the materials, both audio and visual. If I can't do one last honest deal for Jack the whole lot goes up in smoke. The symbolism will be very clear.'

‘For God's sake, Linnet,' Tina says. ‘You won't do that.'

‘Try me,' I say. ‘What have I got to lose? Money? If Nash has his way I'll be robbed blind anyway. My reputation? I never had one. Tell Nash it's cash or conflagration. His choice.'

Tina looks at me as if I'm a child having a tantrum. Mature women negotiate reasonably. I walk away and go to the spare bedroom before she can talk me down. That was my message, Tina Cole. Deliver it.

Ten minutes later they come to find me, and by that time my
bag is packed. I say, ‘The usual procedure is a decoy car at the front door and a greengrocer's van at the back – in the absence of which, I'll call a cab. I'll contact you at the office later.'

‘Stop it,' Tina says. ‘Let's talk about this.'

‘All right, but there isn't much alternative. I know you think I'm being destructive and unreasonable, but this is an unreasonable situation. Mature, reasonable folk with mature, reasonable aspirations don't succeed in rock'n'roll.'

‘So you put a gun to your own head and say, “If you don't give me what I want I'll pull the trigger”, is that it?'

‘Sounds pretty much like it,' I say, and start to laugh. ‘What did Nash say?'

‘He said you were wilful and cutting off your nose to spite your face. Then he hung up on me.' She thought about it for a moment and then said, ‘Wilful? I haven't heard that one since I was about five years old. He really does think you're a moron, doesn't he?'

‘Well,' I say, ‘he thinks I'm a hysterical greedy woman. Same thing maybe.'

George says, ‘Did you mean any of what you said?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘Then start with the press release,' he says. ‘I wouldn't mind seeing Mr Z take a dose of his own medicine.'

‘Right away, Mr Adler,' I say, ‘as soon as I get settled. It's top of the list.'

‘Where are you going?' Tina asks. ‘Look, I know I'm pissed off with the twats outside but I think you'd better stay. George won't forgive me if I let you go.'

The phone rings and she goes to answer it. George looks at me and says, ‘She's right – I won't. She isn't asking you to leave, you know. I know you think you should but it isn't necessary.' He has a relieved, twinkly look in his eyes. I know that look. I've done something which pleases him. What is it?

He says, ‘The thing about Tina is that she's very concerned with fairness. Unfairness makes her angry. She isn't angry with you.'

Ah, that's it. Efficient Ms Walker has behaved like a child throwing a wobbler, which you'd think was a great big turn-off. But in fact sweet George digs it. It allows him safely to hold my
hand, protect me and explain the world to me. Essentially, it has allowed him to become parental in his relationship with me. He can act in the mask which suits him best – the Good Father's mask. Yes, sweet Mr Adler is at his most comfortable as the Good Father.

‘Tell me about the tapes,' he says. ‘Are they really so valuable?'

‘Yes. And no. They're just songs taped on a little four-track. They were only meant to be guide tracks. But death and age have given them enormous value. There's a mystique too. It's all part of the unfairness. Why does one singer gather mystique and value and another drop out of sight? Why is fame and success splashed so liberally on a few and not on others? It's neither fair to the famous nor to the forgotten. Value doesn't necessarily have anything to do with quality. Jack's tapes are extremely valuable because so many people want them.'

‘And for no other reason?'

‘They're good songs,' I say. ‘But that's not what's causing all the fuss, is it?'

‘No,' he says. ‘Fame and notoriety are causing all the fuss. What I want to know is how valuable are they to you?'

‘I can't say.' I think about it. ‘If your house was on fire, and all the people you loved were already safe, what would you rescue?'

‘Ah yes, that question,' he says. ‘But you say you'll destroy them.'

‘Yes.'

‘Wait a minute,' he says, ‘something's coming back to me. In olden times, some parents would murder their own children rather than let them be taken into slavery. I don't agree with it but you can see their point.'

If you let a man answer his own question he will find an answer he understands. He may not understand
you,
but an answer is generally a satisfactory substitute for understanding.

Fortunately Tina returns before the dear man's answers become even more absurd. ‘Well, well, well,' she says, ‘your lousy reputation's working in your favour for a change. Mr Zalisky seems to think you're capable of acts of vandalism and self-destruction beyond my wildest dreams. What a way to do business!'

‘He believes her?' George asked.

‘We-ell, maybe he thinks he can't afford to disbelieve her. Linnet, what did you ever do to the man? He's very, very weird about you.'

‘I went to the movies with him once a long time ago,' I say. ‘But it isn't me. He's weird about Jack. It's that old mystique again. Jack had it in truckloads.'

‘No,' Tina says. ‘he's weird about you. Why do I think he's a pervert?'

‘A pervert?' says Good Father George.

‘I want to send myself to the laundry after talking to him. Why?'

I just smile and shake my head.

‘And how did he get to be so rich and powerful? He's such a warty little shrimp.'

‘He does challenge evolutionary theory, doesn't he?' I say.

‘It really frightens me when two women discuss a man they don't like,' George says. ‘So would you mind sticking to the point. What did the warty little shrimp agree to?'

Tina consults her phone pad. ‘Well, subject to Linnet's approval, the suggestion is that we send our lawyer over to talk to his lawyer.'

‘Lawyers,' I say. ‘He's got them in football teams. We've got to discuss that.'

Q
BIRDIE WALKER
:
As mad and bad as ever. Jack did what Jack did. Shit happens.' Now the face that launched a thousand hits takes on Super Spider. Who's your money on?

Words: Ty Casparo
Photographs: Roy O'Brien

It is one of those soft late summer days and the overgrown garden behind the Chelsea Arts Club is suspended for a moment between sunshine and showers. Ms Walker sits on the terrace with a glass of wine in her hand treating the aging hipsters to a rare glimpse of Birdie unbuttoning.

‘Rule number one,' wannabe music scribes were taught back in the bad old days, ‘Birdie walks, but she doesn't talk.' Those were the days when rockchicks were mad, bad and dangerous to know. So how's she feeling today? Bad? Not so's you'd notice. Dangerous? Well you might want to avoid those Ibiza-trash heels. Mad? Ah, now you're talking! ‘Mad as hell,' she steams.

She is not, as you might suppose, referring to her recent arrest for allegedly dealing mind-altering substances to minors. ‘If it weren't so stupid it would be funny,' she says loftily. ‘It's not my fault if someone can't tell the difference between a handful of sultanas and Class-A drugs.' Not something you could accuse Birdie herself of. ‘History,' she retorts with a flick of the once-famous golden mane. ‘I'm not apologising for the past.'

But wasn't it the excesses of yesteryear that added her legendary lover Jack to the list of drug fatalities? Jack did what Jack did, and he didn't do anything by halves. Fame, drugs and paranoia can be a destructive cocktail.
Shit happens.' Shit happening seems to be on the Bird brain today and that's what's making her so mad. Jack was convinced the record companies were ripping him off and, surprise, surprise, they still are. More than ever now with Jack's anniversary coming up – all the old stuff repackaged, prepackaged, your usual multimedia T-shirt, Jack-on-the-rack culture – coordinated by Super Spider.'

Super Spider, it seems, is Birdie-speak for Nash Zalisky, the eccentric, reclusive mogul behind many of the pipelined Jack projects. ‘He always wanted to lure us into his web,' Birdie shudders. ‘If Jack hadn't died, Super Spider would've sucked him dry. Not many people know that Nash was totally obsessed. He still is. He's been searching basements and rubbish bins for anything to do with Jack: photos, nail clippings – you name it. So he comes to me and says, “What've you got?” And I'm like, Whoa! I'm not into the necrophilia thing. Besides, why should I give him anything of Jack's? New stuff, new deal – or no deal.'

Hold on a minute! New stuff? Can the original Rock Widow mean that there's a secret legacy snatched from the grave? It seems she can. A forgotten stash of demo tapes and some unique sought-after movie footage have miraculously surfaced just in time for the eagerly anticipated Jack-fest. But we aren't talking about mere nail clippings now, are we? ‘We are not. Dog spokesmen want to downgrade what's been discovered but that's for the usual exploitative reason: they want to own it but they don't want to pay.'

Almost from the start, Birdie claims, corporate double-dealings left Jack with the lifestyle of a megastar but practically zilch in his pockets. ‘It's a rockbiz cliché,' she seethes. ‘The people who take the profits aren't responsible for the losses. They take the bread and the people who make the music live on the crumbs. Jack didn't even own his house or his car. What's worse, he didn't own his music.'

So who does? ‘I do.' The brilliant blue eyes gaze out defiantly. ‘It's something the record companies never accepted. But I worked with Jack and I can prove it.'

Quite a claim. True or false? Someone who worked extensively with Jack, and witnessed relations between the glamorous couple, told
Q
:
‘He'd start a song; she'd finish it. She'd come up with a line; he'd construct a whole theme from it. Being in the same studio as those two was like watching a game of ping-pong. They were almost inside each other's heads.
But of course Jack was the star so Jack got all the credit. That's the way it was in those days.'

Not everyone interpreted the relationship in quite the same way. ‘She was riding on his back,' one source close to Jack's band informed
Q
.
‘He was the golden goose and she had a taste for
foie gras.'

The face who reportedly launched a thousand hits doesn't deny it. ‘Sure I enjoyed the high life,' she admits. ‘Who doesn't?'

It's a lifestyle that she may enjoy again if the contractual mare's-nest of the past twenty-five years can be resolved. But without a new deal, she insists, there will be no new music. ‘It's great stuff but I'd rather burn the lot than sell Jack into slavery again.'

Birdie, if anyone cares to remember, is no stranger to the tragic results of fire, so you're forced to the conclusion that she means what she says. Behind the blonde hair and innocent blue eyes there's a core of pure steel. ‘No, it's not an idle threat,' she chirps. ‘I haven't come all this way just to make things easy for someone I think of as a prime case for natural deselection.'

Ouch! Watch out, Super Spider, Birdie Walker sharpened her talons long ago, when rockchicks
really
knew how to be mad and bad. She wrote the book on dangerous-to-know back in the days when such things mattered. Today, it seems, she's going by the book.

My sister has made me a dress. And what a dress! There's nothing else like it in the world. It is unique and when I put it on I am unique too. There are no designer labels and it cost her nothing but time – by which I mean that it cost her the whole of her life and experience, her hands and her eyes.

Years ago, I took her gift for granted. ‘Oh, Robin will make you something,' I said to Jack when he wanted a certain kind of stage costume. Anyone can sew if they've got the patience and nothing better to do. Robin's patient and she's got nothing better to do than run you up what you want. I knew she'd make him something marvellous because she adored him. Adored him but bored him. There was always something abject in her devotion. Sugar and no spice.

Oh but there's spice in this dress. And wit. Look at the collar – it rears up and then curls gracefully over below the ears. It's a collar which forces me to hold my head high and stare into the mirror-mirror-on-the-wall. This is a dress for me
now.
Today. It is not feathers for a bird-brained chicky-babe.

Tina taps on the door and comes in. Her eyes say, ‘Wow!' when she sees what I'm wearing, but her mouth says, ‘Are you ready? I was going to call a cab, but someone's sent a car.'

‘Call a cab,' I tell her through the mirror. ‘Send the car away.'

‘But it's a Rolls,' she says wistfully.

‘Nash bugs his cars. But keep it outside your door if you want to look good.'

‘I'll get rid of it,' says puritan Tina. No ostentation without good reason. ‘But we ought to get a move on or we'll be late.'

‘Exactly,' I say. ‘We're going to be late. Relax. Make a cup of tea and chill.'

I have my reputation to consider. Am I the type to turn up dutifully, on the dot, and then wait patiently for the honchos to get their act together? I am not. Nor is this dress. Robin has made a garment worth waiting for. Nash sent his car, but it is not, as Tina thinks, a mark of respect. He wants to know where I am, and when I will arrive. It is a symbol of control. Go suck your tiny thumb, Nash. I'll come when I'm good and ready.