Diaries 1969-1979_ The Python Years - Michael Palin [136]
Monday, March 10th, New York
A poor night’s sleep. I have a nagging sore throat, aches all over and the appalling continuous hum of the air-conditioning outside my window. I feel just … just bad. But this is a promotional tour and physical weakness has no sympathetic hearing.
Today is dominated by a party, to be held at Sardi’s restaurant, to launch us as new stars on Clive Davis’ Arista label. Nancy has kept phoning, anxiously mentioning the party – there is talk of us changing (into what? We have one suit between us). Anyway, there is generally evident a feeling of rising excitement, as though one of the Main Reasons for our trip is to be fulfilled. We arrive at Arista’s offices at 1776 Broadway (which must equal the White House, Pennsylvania Avenue, for the all-American address).
Well-dressed girls are at desks everywhere. We are given a beer each and the ‘Clive won’t be long now’s’ increase in frequency. At last the moment comes to go into the presence of Him. When I asked if we should kneel, they laughed, but slightly nervously.
The first thing that impressed me about the Great man of the American Recording Business was his office. He had the kind of exaggerated fifteen-foot desk which we write into sketches, and yet you could see he needed it. It was full of papers, letters ready for signing, telephones, intercoms, etc, etc. There seemed to be no acreage which was just added on for show. Around the walls were at least twenty gold discs, pictures of him with his family, citations from the Pope and an embossed certificate for outstanding services to the Jewish community in New York. Huge sofas and beautiful speakers and a washroom attached.
He was evidently concerned about spending money on this launch party without being sure of getting something out of the function – i.e. a little sketch from us, perhaps, a short appearance, a few jokes. He was clearly feeling his way with the Python group. He may be World Expert on Dylan, Sonny and Cher and Blood Sweat and Tears, but one got the feeling he was not yet certain about why he liked Python or why others liked Python. He was at the stage of simply being aware that people did like Python.
Like a fussy mother with new-born chicks, Davis ushered us into the lift. He twinkled, smiled, joked about the pouring rain in Broadway, ‘We had it specially imported to make you feel at home’, and got us all taxis. Then he bustled us into Sardi’s, waiting until we’d all handed in our coats before leading us upstairs. Some 150 folk were assembled.
Clive said a few words, we joked a little and then the ‘Thomas Hardy Novel-Writing’ track was played. I had to pinch myself to believe it was all happening. Were we really in Sardi’s, the renowned Broadway restaurant, with Clive Davis, the renowned record producer, surrounded by a crowd ‘ooohing!’ and ‘aaahing’ with uncertain delight as a not brilliant sketch about Thomas Hardy writing a novel was played over a hastily rigged-up record player system? No, it couldn’t be true, I’d finally flipped. Then was everything afterwards untrue? Did a stout little lady with a Middle European accent keep badgering me about Swiss rights to Monty Python? Did the wife of Bill Ryan of Esquire magazine really claim that Bert Fegg’s Nasty Book had made her laugh so much it had cured her back pains?
Tuesday, March 11th, New York
Another fitful night’s sleep. Terry came in about 10.00 bearing a note from two Python groupies which had been slipped under his door last night. Jones and Palin Ltd were offered a good time in New York, by two fans who were hopelessly in love with us and had waited in the bar for five hours last night.
But we had no time for that sort of stuff. Oh, no, another Herculean day lay ahead. I felt better