No Way to Say Goodbye - Anna McPartlin [60]
He plugged them as the Carpenters of the late eighties. Of course they sounded nothing like the Carpenters, and their songs were hardcore rock anthems, which they considered an antidote to Karen and Richard’s squeaky-clean soft pop-rock. Also, they weren’t related, which was good because they had sex at any given opportunity. It wasn’t love, and Sophia understood the concept of opportunistic fucking – she was a rocker, after all.
They worked well together; he secured them paid gigs early on and free recording time, finding that he could schmooze with the best of them. She was serious about improving vocally, became stronger with each passing day and was dedicated to working on her image. Neither batted an eyelid when the other slept with someone else. He acted as manager and found that for some reason doors were quick to open. Maybe it was because he flirted with the PA to every record-company executive in New York and maybe not, but their demos were always heard. Sam was always working. When they weren’t gigging, they were writing. When they weren’t writing, they were practising. When they weren’t practising, he was networking.
They’d been together for nearly two years when the buzz started. Vocally, Sophia had found her niche – one critic describing her voice as husky, dark, warm, sexy and pitch-perfect. The music was strong too, reminiscent of Janis Joplin’s raw iron but hinting at what would later become grunge. But music is all about timing: what’s hot today isn’t tomorrow, and it turned out that Sam’s burning, pain-soaked anthems were a little ahead of their time. The world was still into metal-inspired rock ‘n’ roll and the charts were dominated by bands like Guns N’ Roses teasing the girls and instructing the guys with tracks like “Patience”, and on the other side, U2’s The Joshua Tree had delivered America a new-found church: the Church of Bono. Record companies with little imagination were looking for the next U2 and the next GN’R. Sam and Sophia didn’t fit the bill but Sophia alone – well, she had a voice that could raise the roof, just like Axl and Bono and all those guys, but she was different because she was a girl. Better than that, she was a girl with balls and Max Eastler, the hottest A&R guy on the east coast, had wondered the first time he’d seen them play how much better she would be with a shit-kicking band around her.
He’d sat back and watched her on the stage, analysing her dirty against her guitar player’s pretty. He had liked the songs but the songs were the guy’s and he was a complication. Besides, Eastler had songs – great writers, great producers, great players were all available to him – so all he had to do was get rid of the blond kid.
It wasn’t hard to persuade Sophia to abandon Sam – after all, they had no allegiance to one another, not sexually and certainly not emotionally, and, hey, business is business, after all. Just when they had a chance to get somewhere, she walked and his faith walked with her.
“Please don’t do this,” he’d begged.
“It’s done,” she said, unable to look him in the face.
“Please.” He was on his knees.
She shook her head. “You’re a good player, Sam, but we both know that you’re never going to be great.” She still couldn’t meet his eyes.
“I’ll work harder,” he pleaded.
“Max is right – talent like yours is… Well, you’re expendable. I’m sorry.” She paused and added, “This is my shot and I can’t blow it on some guy I probably won’t even remember in ten years.”
Sam was crying when she left, and he hated himself for it but he hated her more. Her desertion and her reasoning had hit him hard, knocking his confidence so much that he retired his guitar and swore he’d never trust anyone again or ever again show weakness. He meant it and was blessed – or cursed – with great resolve.
During his time with Sophia he had realized something interesting about himself: he was an intuitive businessman and, better than that, he had the gift for spotting talent. He could walk into