THEY DO THINGS DIFFERENTLY IN THE STATES

Most of the major classical catalogues we represented originated in Europe, so that was generally my destination when I flew out of Australia.

On one particular occasion, however, I came back via the States, calling in on several New York companies, and flying on to Los Angeles to visit Capitol Records, who supplied us with a lot of our light music material.

I knew him only through correspondence, but I was advised by the head of Capitol’s mail order operation that he would pick me up from the airport and drive me to my hotel.

In the event he had his chief henchman with him, bearing a placard on sticks JOHN DAY set in an outline of Australia.  They identified me promptly, greeted me warmly, and escorted me and my baggage to the parking lot and my U.S. counterpart’s company car.

I think it was the biggest car I have ever seen: a dazzlingly white fully convertible Cadillac, with red interior trim, and upholstered in leopard skin – presumably fake, though with Cadillac you never know.

They drove me to the hotel, and waited for me while I checked in – then on to lunch where we were joined by several more staff.  I can’t remember the restaurant’s name, but it had a bogus intermittent thunderstorm occurring outside its plate glass windows, and all the waitresses were topless.

It could only happen in America.

PRAWNS A LA MODE

The first time I visited Paris I was in Norman Lonsdale’s company – on the track of some minor French label (minor companies were the only ones who’d speak to us in those early days).  We lunched at the Paris Nord station restaurant, and I chose mussels, absolutely delicious, so that when the waiter returned with a steaming cauldron, I gladly accepted his offer of a big second helping – and then a third.

Unlike Norman, I had no French, so was intrigued when the waiter said something to him which caused them both some amusement.

“What did he say?” I asked.

"Oh, just that you’d set a new all-time record.”

Not the sort of record we were interested in, unfortunately.

Anyway, the important lunch occurred some years later when I returned to Paris to visit Erato.  We had been releasing their material in Australia for a couple of years by then, and had achieved phenomenal sales – far beyond their expectations.

No wonder then that I was taken to lunch (to a very classy restaurant near the Opera) by Erato’s owner and his wife, plus several of his executives.  Madame was dressed very elegantly in a dress with a rather lacey top.  I started with prawns, which were served still in their shells, and the only way to get at them was to twist off their heads first, then undress them as it were.  I negotiated the first two or three successfully, but the next twist released a vicious spurt of flavoursome juice which landed, of course, full on Madame’s lace.

Imagine me trying to get out “Oh my God. I’m so sorry!  I’m so sorry!  Bad enough in English. I had to try to do it in French.

TALKING OF LUNCHES

The arrival of the Club created something of a furore in some circles in the U.K. – apart from the record industry, that is.

Fiona Bentley was lunching alone in a certain rather fashionable restaurant in Albemarle Street in Mayfair in the week following our first advertisements.  A party of four gentlemen was shown to the table adjacent to hers, and Fiona listened, fascinated, as the party almost immediately embarked upon a spirited discussion of WRC’s launching.  It went something like this:

“Well, who are these people?” someone asked.

“A bunch of amateurs.”

“Yes, but who are they?”

“Well, you know who Attenborough is.”

“An actor, yes.”

“Well, Lonsdale’s just a party boy – never worked.  He and Attenborough are friends apparently.  The girl – I don’t know – I think she and Lonsdale have a – you know – a thing together.”

And so it went on – lots of conjecture, very few facts, and an overall rather spiteful tone.  It emerged that the four worked at a certain very large publishing house specializing in mail order.  Fiona listened unashamedly until their talk turned to other things, but before she left had a quiet chat to the waiters attending the men’s table.

The restaurant, you see (although it wasn’t public knowledge) happened to be owned by Norman Lonsdale, Richard Attenborough and John Mills.  Fiona just asked the waiters to keep their ears tuned to any possible slander.

What did they say about me do I hear you ask?  Well, someone said I was just some sort of jumped-up Australian copywriter.  At least they got that right.

Continue to Part 5