Queen of the Freebies (or, how I got to make a record for next to nothing, and never paid for my Miu Miu)
I presently live with my Antipodean cousin, Rebecca, in what we at first thought was a Sex and the City type scenario of two young gals-about-town house and Jimmy Choo sharing, giggling, breathless and in demand. On closer inspection, we have rather become like characters out of a George Gissing novel, all face packs, knitting, crushes on Jeremy Paxman and staying in to get drunk on Monday nights. And sadly, Saturday nights too. Becky is that bit younger than I, so that when I refer to us as the Odd Women, she can laugh knowing there is still hope for her, while I am starting to wonder... am I going to die with my 21 cats and only be found when a neighbour complains to the police about the strange smell from next door? To which Rebecca replies
‘Aw, you look great for 103. And there’s always plastic surgery.’
I think she is joking.
Becks is the kind of girl you want to be in an emergency with. She knows how to bleed radiators, survive in the bush without food, and says ‘She’ll be right’ with such conviction you wonder how you could ever have believed otherwise. She, like my mother her aunt, does everything, and I mean everything, in heels, and never leaves the house without being fully co-ordinated. She appreciates the art of accessorizing in the way only women from my family can, and even though we have lived together for a while now, never lets a day go by without complimenting my wardrobe, to which I reply
‘Oh this old thing? I’ve had this for ages!’
Every single time. She has started pre-empting my answer and parodies me before I can. But you see, I was wise, for that brief moment of 11 days when it looked like I might have a hit, I took every bit of free clothing I could get my hands on, and some I shouldn’t have, in every possible size and colour, and stockpiled. Like those paranoid folk who thought the millennium bug would wipe out civilization as we know it, and who are now wondering what to do with all those tins of corned beef and peanut butter in their garages, I contemplated the possibility of obscurity and decided the only way I could endure it was in Miu Miu and Costume National I hadn’t paid for. My friends, I had Juicy before you knew what is was. I gave my Joie jeans away before they were even cool, knowing that in 3 months’ time I would be ashamed to be seen in them. Yup, labels are nice, but they’re even lovelier when you haven’t paid a penny for them.
It works like this. At some point, the record label will decide to do a photo shoot for album artwork, and press shots and such, and you will find yourself in a studio somewhere, standing in your underwear while you are poked, prodded and poured into various outfits you wouldn’t been seen dead in on a normal day. I have done a few shoots in my time, but I have to say that I was extremely lucky when signed to a major label. My first shoot was with a very well known European fashion photographer, in a stately home south of London, and apart from having to share the odd shot with an over friendly python called Morticia, I came home with a new haircut (which cost the label £1000) and some very fetching new outfits.
As my record became a ‘priority’, (that always makes me snigger, God knows what happens to records that aren’t ‘priority’ – do the finance department just get a case full of fresh banknotes and have a ceremonial setting fire to £500,000 in the canteen?) so the level of my shoots and wardrobe improved exponentially. For my album shoot, I was flown to Hollywood and spent 3 days being fussed over and preened to the tune of £50,000, courtesy of an A-list team who make $500 an hour just to curl your eyelashes. When the art director and product manager weren’t looking, the stylist kindly stuffed another pair of Marc Jacob pants into a plastic bag and told me ‘not to worry, they’ll never notice, and by the time they do, you’ll have recouped!’ (or not, I want to yell now, but what’s another £3000 when you’re nearly a million in the hole?). I bought another suitcase before I flew home, and arrived back in London feeling very pleased with myself, and sporting my new look of layering two pairs of tights – one coloured, the next fishnet – it’s a style all of its own, go on, I urge you to try it. (A great look for the winter, girls. Just don’t try and have sex in a hurry.)
For some reason, my press officer managed to procure me more editorials than music press, but while this meant everyone thought I was a ‘fake’ artist who didn’t know a piano from a guitar, my free clothing collection came along quite nicely, so I stayed cheerful nonetheless. I told the beauty editor of one mag what lipstick I liked, and bingo!, the next day a free bag of products from the same company arrived. The list is endless. The record company, in their over zealous attempt at re-branding, chose to have another shoot for the album (non) re-issue, and so, how tedious, I arrived back in Heathrow with yet another new suitcase, this time chock full of spoils from the shopping trip to Barney’s and Fred Segal’s with the nice stylist lady. On this occasion, I made sure not to neglect the accessory department of my cupboard.
According to my own hippy dippy mantra of ‘everything in life is an opportunity to learn’, I thought to extend this habit of bargain hunting to the making of my second album. On the afternoon of the same day I was dropped, my kindly publisher, all round good egg and Patron of the unsung artist, saw fit to fund another adventure in music for yours truly. Of course, this would be on a budget of miniscule proportions, but thrift is in my blood and I saw it only as a challenge and not a hindrance. It would require stealth, careful planning and much batting of eyelids. It would require an accomplice too, and luckily, one particular individual volunteered before I had to offer my body. (Not that I was unwilling, he’s kind of cute.)
In a not entirely un-related story I won’t go into, I somehow managed to wangle a free trip to Los Angeles in the capacity of human mule for a video of a Grammy acceptance speech made by rock royalty. The same nice person who authorized my trip, unwittingly paid for a not insubstantial chunk of vocals on my album, and for some of the cream of the LA session scene to join in too. Any feelings of guilt were quickly dismissed when I remembered the discomfort of 10 hours in economy, and that the musicians would rather be playing some real music made by a charity case. (They like the word karma a lot in LA, almost as much as ‘closure’ and ‘Scientology’, so I use it frequently to approving nods all round.)
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