WHITE NOISE

            I go to see Ray because he calls and asks me to meet him.  He says he’s had a meeting with the record company and they want to call the album White Noise, which I tell him I like.  Ray shows me potential covers for the album, and the one we both agree on is of a white-coloured white noise sound-wave on a black background, with WHITE NOISE written in lower case red lettering on the cover.  JACK SMITH is written in very, very dark grey at the bottom of the cover, which I like because it’s understated.  Ray says he knew I’d say that.

            We then move on the subject of the CD single artwork, and after some heated debate I just tell him to do what he wants.  He says that’s convenient because the finished design has already been sent out.  As I’m leaving he simply winks and says “Sex sells”.  When I get home I just pace around the house for no reason at all other than I can’t relax.  I check my e-mails and notice straight away I’ve got one from Samantha saying she loves the album.  I hear her soft voice in my head as I read every word of her e-mail, as she reviews every single track.  She says her favourite three songs are—in no order—Happy Ending, Everyone Knows You’ve Been Screwing Around (Except Me) and White Noise (probably my top three as well, in that order).  She says she loves “the anger” in those songs, and says she nearly cried during Wish You Were Dead.  She says the album is bound to be a huge hit.  I smile as I read it but I wonder how honest she’s being.  I’ve heard it all before.

            It takes me nearly two hours to reply—I deliberate over every single word in the e-mail and wonder how she might construe it, and if it sounds good, or if it sounds stupid, and I wonder why I care so much.  I type her name into Google and look at some pictures of her.  Then I make sure to delete my history and temporary internet files.  Kate has to work late, and when she gets home I’m asleep on the sofa.

LAST week we gave you the exclusive news that stunner SAMANTHA LOUISE was to star in the new Jack Smith music video, Plastic Woman.  Our snapper was on hand to catch an exclusive shot of the couple leaving a posh London bar on Monday night. 

An onlooker said, “There was definitely a spark between the two.  Samantha looked gorgeous, and Jack—well, he’s a lucky guy!”  He sure is.

.

This next chapter follows on from the last snippet I posted, which in turn followed on from the first snippet I posted.  Now, at the risk of putting you all off (if I haven’t already) I probably won’t post the whole shebang bit after bit after bit after bit.  I may post the odd chapter here and there, but my intention was never just to give away the whole story.  I was hoping to put the first few bits out there and test the water as it were.  Now, if you feel compelled to comment on this or any of the previous bits of Happy Ending I’ve posted, please do.  If your feedback is good, bad, encouraging, psychologically damaging, whatever; I don’t mind.  If you think it’s shit and I’m wasting my time then please say so.  If you think it’s OK but nothing great then say so.  I’m fairly thick-skinned.

I’m very grateful for the feedback so far.  I’ve had a couple of nice comments come my way, and a bit of negative feedback too (my favourite: “It’s weird.  The blog’s better than the novel.”).

So anyway, on that note, a brief word before I post the next chapter.  So far we have been introduced to three of the four main characters; Jack, Ray and Jack’s girlfriend Kate.  In the next chapter we’ll meet the fourth main character, Samantha.  Blonde hair, blue eyes, big tits: yes I know she’s a cliché but that’s kind of the point.

As for the format, if you hadn’t worked it out I’m trying to break up Jack’s narrative with newspaper articles, magazine interviews etc.  Might be obvious but I just wanted to point it out (the blog formatting isn’t ideal but hopefully it works).

So settle down for the next instalment, as our hero Jack gets to make a music video.

            PLASTIC WOMAN

            I’ve never seen Ray so excited, and consequently he’s never irritated me so much.  He doesn’t stop smiling in the taxi, fidgeting in his seat for the entire journey.  I stare out the window wondering how it ever came to this.  It’s a five-minute walk from Ray’s office to the video shoot, but Ray doesn’t want to arrive on foot.  Over and over again he says “I can’t imagine the Rolling Stones walking anywhere.”  I just ignore him.

            Ray introduces the models to me as the stars of the video when we arrive.  I’m not egotistical in the slightest but it would nice if he could refer to me as the star of my own fucking video.  My own fucking video which admittedly I don’t even want to make, and into which I’ve had zero input. 

            “Jack, may I introduce you to Kimberley…”

            I can’t believe he’s memorised their names.  The sad fuck.  “Hi.”

            “Hi.”

            “—Elin…”

            “Hi.”

            “Hi.”

            “—and Samantha.”

            “Hi.”

            “Hi.”  Fuck me, Samantha’s gorgeous.  “Pleased to meet you.  All of you.”

            “No introductions necessary,” Samantha smiles.  “I loved your first album.”

            “You’re just saying that.”

            “No,” she giggles, “I’m not.  I loved it.  Still do.  I bought both singles too.  I think it’s a really great album.  I can’t wait to hear your new one.”

            I lean closer and drop my voice, “I could get you a demo copy if you like?  I mean, it’s not completed finalised yet, and it doesn’t have a title, but I could get Ray to go and burn you a copy.  Hot off the press, as it were.”

            “Oh.  My.  God.  Are you serious?”

            I turn to Ray, but he’s trying his best to flirt with Kimberley and Elin.  “I’ll get Ray to fetch you a CD.”

            “Wow.  That’s great.”  There’s a second of awkward silence before Samantha is called for make-up.  “I’d better get ready,” she smiles.  “I’ll, erm, speak to you later, yeah?”

            “Yeah.  Sure.”

            That type of thing doesn’t happen much.  Occasionally people recognise me, but not very often.  I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who seemed as pleased to see me as Samantha.  I struggle to think of a fan I’ve met who admitted to buying the album and both singles.  I didn’t think anyone bought either of the singles, let alone both.  The album sales were OK but the singles sales were frankly embarrassing, hence me losing my record deal and ending up recording my second album myself.

            When Ray has finished drooling over Elin and Kimberley, I ask if he can quickly run back to his office and burn a copy of my new album that I can sign and give to Samantha.  He says he doesn’t want to miss the video shoot (unlike me he’s been looking forward to this all week), but I promise him if he brings me a CD then we won’t start the shoot without him, and off he goes.  He starts to call a taxi but I tell him to walk, which he reluctantly does.  He’s breathless when he gets back, and the first thing he pants when he comes back in is “What did I miss?” before he gives me a CD in a blank case which I take to Samantha, who’s being made-up in a corner.  When I ask if she’d like me to sign it, she smiles and says yes.  I scribble, “Thanks for your help” and sign the blank insert.  I notice that Ray hasn’t bothered to print out the track listing, so I quickly scribble it on the other side of the CD insert:

         1)      Everyone Knows You’ve Been Screwing Around (Except Me)

         2)      Katie

         3)      Plastic Woman

         4)      White Noise

         5)      There’s Nobody Home

         6)      Wish You Were Dead

         7)      Happy Ending

         8)      Goodbye, Cruel World

            The video consists of me playing my guitar in front of a black background, while the three models dance provocatively in skimpy costumes around me.  Filming it is nowhere near as much fun as I imagine the finished product will suggest.  I sing along to the song about a million times while the director (an old boarding school friend of Ray’s who, I’m told, is relatively famous for filming low budget pornography) gets a ton of shots of me and the models from every single conceivable angle.  Then—and I look across and note the enormous inane grin on Ray’s face—the director asks the girls to take off their tops and dance around exactly as before.  This is for a so-called x-rated version of the video which they hope will air late-night on the music channels and will appear on the CD/DVD single and as a download.  Personally I think Plastic Woman is an OK song, but I don’t think it should be the first single.  The record company, crucially, do.  (It’s the only track on the album that’s anything like upbeat.)  It was my previous record company who decided Daydreamer should be the first single from my first album (it reached 57 in the UK charts), so what do I know? 

            The idea for the video isn’t mine.  Ray pitched the idea to the record company without my consent, because he knew I wouldn’t like it.  I was vehemently opposed to the concept when Ray told me about it, but by this time the video had all been okayed by the powers that be and the filming had all been set up.  I was livid.  I didn’t know what I wanted the video to be, but I would have appreciated being involved in the decision.  Ray put forward two compelling arguments in his own inimitable way; firstly—sex sells (Ray’s golden rule), and secondly—I should be grateful to have a contract at all given my track record of successful singles to date, let alone cash to throw at a video.  So here we are in what looks like a disused warehouse with three glamour models writhing around while I mime to probably my least favourite—certainly the least meaningful—track on my new album.  Ray’s counter argument to whatever I say is that the record company are taking a gamble spending cash on anything to do with my album.  I tolerate this to a point, but I know deep down that Ray truly believes this is a great album.  Whether he thinks it will propel me to megastar status is debatable, but I think he really likes the record, and I think he wants it to be recognised critically as well as being commercially successful.

            As we finish filming—while the girls are having photos taken for possible covers for the single (Ray seems to think the single will do better if I’m not on the cover)—Ray pulls me to one side.  “That went really well.  Really well.”

            “You think so?”

            “Definitely.  If we can get this out there it will be huge—I assure you of that.”

            “Well, over to you then.  Get the publicity ball rolling.”

            Ray smiles and nods and winks and goes and gets us both a coffee, returning with the three models.  He explains—in his over-officious, self-important way; showing off, trying to prove that he’s the boss—that he thinks it would be a nice gesture if I took the girls to a restaurant for a nice meal, to show my gratitude for all their help today (i.e. standing around looking gorgeous and getting their tits out when instructed).  He says he’s booked a table for four in a very swanky restaurant in a chic part of London.  “Have a nice meal and a few drinks—enjoy yourselves.” he says.

            I pull Ray to one side.  Before I can speak, he jumps in; “No need to thank me.  Just go out and have fun.”

            “Fucking hell, Ray—what are you doing?”

            “Don’t worry.  Just keep the receipt and we’ll put it through the books as customer entertaining.  You should know that—weren’t you a tax inspector or something?”

            “No.  I wasn’t.”

            “OK, so, I’ll be off—” Ray starts to edge away from me.  I grab his arm.

            “Kate will go fucking mental if she finds out I’m out tonight with three topless models.”

            “Jack, please.  They’re glamour models.  And the video they just made about a million times better could just be the catalyst your career needs.  The least you can do is make polite conversation with them for a couple of hours as a goodwill gesture.  If you can get me Kimberley’s phone number too that would be great.”  He grins and winks and taps me encouragingly on the arm.

            “Ray, sorry, I can’t, it’s just that, this, all of this, it’s just so tacky.  I want to be a successful singer-songwriter.  I don’t want to be known as that bloke in the video where the girls get their tits out.  This is completely contrary to everything I set out to achieve.”

            “You’ll thank me when your video’s playing on MTV twenty-four seven.  Now take those gorgeous girls out, get pissed with them, and have some fun.”

            Poor, poor pitiful me.

.

            CHARMING AND AFFABLE BUT SLIGHTLY CONTROVERSIAL

            It was Ray’s idea.  “Be charming and affable,” he said, “but say something amusing and slightly controversial, just to get the readers’ attention.  But not too controversial.  We don’t want people to not like you.”  How was I to know the magazine would hit the shelves the same day some fool in America burst into a school and shot sixteen seven year olds before putting a live grenade in his mouth and blowing his head clean off his shoulders?

            The editor of B-Minor music magazine—Britain’s biggest magazine for fans of alternative music—is an old friend of Ray’s who owed him a favour.  I’m a virtual unknown in the music industry and the release of my second album is a couple of months away (my first album, as we say in the industry, tanked).  Ray, my manager, thinks the interview will help raise my profile before the release of the first single and the album, a month later.  He says, If you throw enough shit, some sticks.

A Minute with Jack Smith

 

It’s been over a year since you released your critically acclaimed debut album Where Do All The Dirty People Go?, what have you been up to?

I’ve been doing a lot of touring and I’ve been working on my new album which will hopefully be out in March.

 

What can we expect from the new album?

It’s eight tracks long, but we haven’t decided on the title yet.  The record company want to use White Noise, which is one of the tracks.  I’d prefer something like No Happy Endings.  I didn’t mean it, but the album is kind of a story — like a suicide note.  It’s pretty dark — much more so than the first album — and I think No Happy Endings as a title reflects that.  But it’s the record company’s money, so it’ll probably end up being White Noise, which I still like.

 

You say the new album is darker — in what other ways is it different to the first?

I made it all myself, which I really enjoyed.  I wasn’t signed to a record company, so there was never anyone interfering, suggesting I make songs more ‘poppy’ so we can release them as singles, or telling me to trim them down so they’re suitable for radio play.  That really drove me on and made me want to make a great record.  Everything on the record is as I intended it to be.

 

You recorded the new album without a record deal?

I didn’t have much choice.  After Dirty People flopped, the record company dropped me.  So I started writing and recording a few songs.  One day I realised I had this great album, and somehow it ended up on someone’s desk at Objective [Record Company].  Nobody heard the album until it was completely finished, so it’s very special to me in that sense.

 

What would you be doing now if you weren’t doing this?

I’d probably be back in my old accountant’s job, bored out of my fucking mind.

 

What is more important to you—commercial success or critical acclaim?

I always say critical acclaim, but critical acclaim doesn’t pay the bills, does it?  I’d like both, obviously, but if I’m honest, I’d rather people loved my music and didn’t buy it, as opposed to being commercially successful but loathed.

 

How do you hope people perceive you as an artist?

I honestly don’t really care.  Obviously I’d rather not be hated, but I don’t intend to pander for popularity either.  I’m not doing this because I want to be popular or famous or feel important — I’m doing it because I love doing it and it’s more interesting than sitting in an office tapping numbers into spreadsheets.  I don’t crave adulation or try to write songs that make a statement.  I’m not trying to be clever and I don’t have any further agendas — I’ll just keep doing this as long as I’m making enough money to get by.  It’s a job.  A great job — and I’m very grateful to be doing it — but it’s a job nonetheless. 

 

If you died tomorrow, how would you like to be remembered?

I don’t know — I’m not really one for legacies.  If I had to be remembered then maybe it could be for something infamous, like a maniac who got hold of some firearms and ran amok in public.

 

If you had a million pounds that you had to spend by the end of today, what would you buy?

Firearms.

 

Who would your ideal date be, and where would you go?

My girlfriend, Kate, obviously.  But in case she doesn’t read this I’ll say Kate Beckinsale.  I’d probably take her to an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Somewhere not too cheap but not too fancy.  Like me.

 

If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

My teeth.  I hate my teeth.  They’re crooked and I always get food stuck in them which can be embarrassing.  I’m not a vain person but I really hate my teeth.  Oh, and I’d have a couple of inches taken off my penis.  Ms Beckinsale, if you’re reading, call me.

 

Finally, what’s the best advice you’ve ever received?

Never fight naked — unless you’re in prison.

 

Jane Sergeant

            Until early afternoon I sat grinning, holding January’s B-Minor music magazine, proudly reading over my affable, slightly controversial—but hopefully amusing—replies.  Kate even called to say she liked the interview (although she said she hoped I was joking about Kate Beckinsale) and everyone in her office liked it too.  Now I’m sitting watching news report after news report on some Iraq War veteran shooting a class of school children then killing himself.  I look back at the interview:

If I had to be remembered then maybe it could be for something infamous, like a maniac who got hold of some firearms and ran amok in public.

            Why did I try to be funny?  Why did I listen to Ray?  I look back at the TV.  Crying children, crying parents, crying teachers.  Everyone’s crying except the news reporters, who speak in slow, low voices from long, serious faces.  Anyone who reads this magazine article after two o’clock this afternoon is going to think I’m a sick, sick fuck.

            Ray rings up.  I tell him to turn on the news.  He says So what?  I tell him to read the magazine article again.  Ray says Oh Christ.  I say I know.

            “Bloody perfect timing, Jack.”

            “I know, I know.  God, I’m so stupid.”

            “Stupid like a genius,” Ray says.  “You can’t buy publicity like this.”

            “Bigger picture, Ray—”

            “Jack, no publicity is bad publicity.  In fact, bad publicity is better than good publicity.”

            “That doesn’t make any sense, Ray.”

            “All that matters is being in the public eye, OK?  It worked for the Rolling Stones.  I’ve got to go anyway.  I’ve had an idea for the first video.  I’m talking to the record company this afternoon.”

            “I get to make a video?”

            Earlier on in the week I told Ray I wanted the first single to be Everyone Knows You’ve Been Screwing Around (Except Me) but he was quick to disagree, saying he’d spoken to the record company and they didn’t see it as commercially viable enough for a lead single (which is a polite way of them saying No fucking way are we going to release THAT).  The single will be released about a month before the album, so it needs to be a great song that makes people want to buy the album.  Ray says that the choice of first single is a massively important decision, and he tells me, over and over again and in no uncertain terms that I should probably leave the decision-making to him and the record company.  Ray says my skills are writing and performing, while his skill is separating the wheat from the chaff.  I say I hope he isn’t referring to any of my songs as chaff.  He says that artists like me are passionate individuals, and sometimes that passion can cloud judgement.  I wish he’d just be honest and say it’s a purely economical decision, based on market trends and demographics and all that nonsense, and that the record company’s A&R guy will simply pick the song he thinks will make the record company the most money.

            Kate calls and asks if I’ve seen what’s happened in Bumfuck, Alabama (or wherever it was).  I tell her I regret my maniac with firearms comment—she tells me not to think about it.

            “But this was my first ever magazine interview and I’ve put my foot in it completely.  Anyone who reads that now is going to hate me.”

            “Forget about it—it’s done now.  Jack, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.  I just wanted to say that I’m going to be late home tonight.  Like, really late.  Don’t wait up—that kind of late.  This due diligence report is booked in for review first thing tomorrow and it’s about ten percent completed.  Don’t worry about the interview.  It was weeks ago—people will realise that.  How were you to know this would happen?”

DAILY MAIL, JAN 3RD 2008

SINGER SMITH’S SICK SHOOTING JIBE

Little-known British singer-songwriter Jack Smith has been criticised for comments in an interview with music magazine B-Minor in the wake of yesterday’s shooting in Alabama. 

Asked how he’d like to be remembered, Smith replied, “a maniac who gets hold of some firearms and runs amok in public.”

Although Smith’s comments were made in an interview BEFORE the Alabama shooting, they have still angered readers, who are demanding that the magazine publish an apology in their next issue.

More to follow…