One Train Later: A Memoir by Andy Summers & The Edge

Author:Andy Summers & The Edge [Summers, Andy & Edge, The]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Entertainment & Performing Arts, General, Personal Memoirs, Rock musicians, Music, Rock, Biography & Autobiography, Genres & Styles, Composers & Musicians, Guitarists
ISBN: 9780312374815
Google: xMDFPefQCHkC
Barnesnoble:
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2006-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

Through an accountant by the name of Keith Moore, whom Stewart was involved with during his days with Curved Air, we are approached by a couple of Iranian gentlemen with huge ambitions in the entertainment industry, Alex Riahi and his sidekick, the long-suffering Tony. Alex thinks we might have something, and there is talk of his paying us a retainer of sixty pounds a week if we sign up with him as a manager for five years but give him the publishing rights to all the songs. We are in a vulnerable position; it's tempting; we couldn't get much lower and we sure could use the money. But we agree to rehearse over at his studio in Pimlico and see how it goes for a while before we make a heavy commitment. This is probably the sanest decision we ever make. Maybe we are invoking our own future or acting on intuition, but to a man we are fiercely protective about not giving up our publishing rights for sixty pounds a week.

We start practicing in Pimlico and quickly find out that Alex is intense, to the point of being obnoxious. Most days he roars into the garage of the studio in his Mercedes convertible, leaps out, and start haranguing us. These diatribes usually take the form of "Why can't you be more like the News?" another group he's managing who have a minor hit at the time. He holds them up to us as a shining example and tells us that they are going to be the biggest group in the world within two years. We hate them, their stupid music, and their bald-headed singer, but Alex says, "The News, the News." "Bad fucking news," we mutter behind his back.

Tony, his partner, is a gentle soul who comes down when we are rehearsing to ask how we were getting on. But if Alex turns up when Tony is present, he storms into the room, gold chains swinging around his neck, turns, and barks, "Tony-coffee, now," and poor old Tony slinks away like a beaten dog to get the filthy brew. And then in another flurry of gilt medallion, Alex spins back to tell us how it's going to be, what we should do, and do we want to have Rolls- Royces, Lear jets, expensive women, and marble floors, or what? It all sounds like an Iranian nightmare, and our only response is to stare at the floor in a silent embarrassment while he raves on until he leaps back into the Mercedes, guns the engine, and roars out of there at warp speed. The best thing about all of this is that for a while we have a free place to rehearse. It's a strange moment when we seem to stand still: we have made a slightly false move and maybe we know it, but at least we haven't signed anything; there's still a way out.

In the afternoons we walk around the corner to a small coffee bar and get

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