able to be in one place at a time.’
Denny went on to explain what the role of his deputized assistant would entail, which as far as I could gather was to do the basics when he was elsewhere. ‘I need someone who is an accomplished musician who can interpret my thoughts. I only know a few chords on the guitar,’ said Denny.
In the flush of today’s minor glory I told him to look no further, I was his man. But Denny had other plans. He wanted to lure a really big name to England, and then said the most preposterous thing I’d heard all day, or any day for that matter.
‘I’m flying to Los Angeles tomorrow to meet Phil Spector, to ask him to be my assistant.’ Given Phil’s track record of hits this put a whole new spin on chutzpah. I gave Denny my phone number just in case Phil Spector declined the job. Afterwards as I made my way home I tried to imagine the conversation between the two producers:
‘Phil, I’m a little apprehensive about asking you this, old boy, but would you mind coming back to London with me to work as my assistant?’
‘Denny, what are you smoking, man?’
My experience with Denny seemed like a dream; Siegrid could scarcely believe what I told her. Later I told Ellen about my Englishman and what had happened. ‘It was probably a false alarm because he was looking for someone with more experience than me.’
‘No!’ said Ellen very adamantly. ‘He’s the one! He’s the Englishman who will change your life. He will ask you to work with him in England.’
As much as I wanted to believe it, I felt that my psychic energy was only good enough to make cabs appear at three in the morning. What happened with Denny was a false start, a one-off experience at best, a good barstool story.
‘Stay hopeful,’ was all that Ellen would say.
A few days later our phone ringing at 11 a.m. interrupted our morning idyll, which was far from ideal as we had only got to bed at 6 or 7 a.m., as was our habit. Not just any call, it was a call from overseas, the first I’d ever received. The voice on the other end sounded like it was coming out of a short-wave radio, with whistles and pops as the backing track. ‘Phil Spector didn’t work out’ were Denny’s opening words, ‘I’ve also tried to get Artie Butler but he’s also said no.’
Artie was an old buddy of mine who had worked with the legendary producer Shadow Morton as well as playing the piano on ‘Remember (Walking In The Sand)’ and ‘Leader of The Pack’ by the Shangri-Las. ‘Who does this fucking Limey think he is?’ is how I imagine Artie with his Flatbush arrogance would have put it.
‘Tony, I was wondering if you’re still interested in the job?’ This woke me up completely, but I still had to ask Denny several times if he was serious. He kept repeating, ‘Yes’.
‘How will we do it?’ I asked.
‘I’ve spoken with Howard (Richmond) and he’ll arrange the airfare,’ said Denny.
‘When do you want me over there?’ was all I could think of to say.
He explained how very overworked he was and that he needed me there as soon as possible. Somehow I came up with the arbitrary answer, ‘How about in two weeks?’ Quite honestly, if I didn’t have some explaining to do to Siegrid, I would’ve left immediately. I stared at my beautiful wife as she slept, seemingly oblivious to the phone call. With blinding insight it dawned on me that things would never be the same. This is the lucky break everyone dreams of, but it didn’t necessarily include her. For starters Denny didn’t even know I had a wife.
I gently woke her up. She asked who had been on the phone and I said, ‘It was the Englishman, the ENGLISHMAN. And we’re moving to London.’
‘Oh no,’ she groaned, and went back to sleep.
Later I went to see a sceptical Howard Richmond about my plans and to further convince him it was a good idea to let me go to London, ‘to learn how the Brits do it.’ His plan had been for me to develop local New York talent for his forthcoming label, but to be honest I really didn’t know how to do that. I explained that I needed to learn how the Brits did it and bring that secret knowledge back to TRO. Howard finally agreed that I could have two months of a recording education in London. Little did he know that I intended to stay longer; my fingers were crossed behind my back. The next day I called Denny and said I’d be there by the end of April, which pleased him greatly. I told him that I had just collected some car accident insurance money and I was going to buy some cool clothes for London. Unphased by that non sequitur, Denny just said to make sure I got there, and to bring my guitars. He’d supply me with an office and a demo studio.
In the two years Siegrid and I had been together we’d hardly spent any time apart. She understood how much I wanted to go to London, because as a little girl in Germany all she’d wanted to do was to live in America. We agreed that I should go to London first because it would take a month for Siegrid to get rid of our apartment, during which time I would find us a place to live in London. I couldn’t bear it if she didn’t agree to go to London. So I said goodbye to my longhaired beauty, my lover, my ancient Indian temple dancer, and my partner in virtually everything. Both excitement and gloom accompanied me on my flight to London.
In the morning after my ordeal with Customs and Immigration I met the rest of the Cordells: Mia, Denny’s wife, and his children Tarka and Barney. Wow, even the little kids had English accents. Like Denny, Mia was prematurely grey, but an English Rose, and Tarka and Barney were two of the cutest kids I’d ever seen. For breakfast, only toast with marmalade and tea was offered. That was fine by me, as I was not yet a coffee snob, but the marmalade was strangely bitter for a jam.
Soon we were motoring to 68 Oxford Street, to Dumbarton House, the office of Essex Music. It was also home to Denny’s boldly named company, New Breed Productions. The language confusion persisted when I tried to fathom why the suite of offices was on the first floor, when we’d clearly gone up one flight of stairs to get there. In New York, we’d be on the second floor. It was explained to me that the floor I took to be the first floor was called the ground floor in England. Fine! I’m getting it—the first floor is the ground floor, the couch is a settee and a bathrobe is a dressing gown. I expected to be told later in the day that a vest was an undershirt. It is: I was.
Denny introduced me to the girls at the reception desk—all ‘dolly birds’ in miniskirts—exactly what I expected from pictures in magazines, a pleasant surprise on my first day. Then I was ushered into an office, that of David Platz, the President of Essex Music International (Howard Richmond’s equivalent in London). He was also Denny’s equal partner in New Breed Productions Ltd and couldn’t have been any more different in appearance and demeanour. Denny Cordell might look and speak like King Arthur but he wore ripped jeans, moccasins and an Afghan waistcoat. David Platz was bespectacled, dressed in classic British tweeds, had a short conventional hairstyle and puffed on a briar pipe—a Basil Rathbone look-a-like. He spoke through his nose, or rather down his nose at me, and had a disarming way of invading one’s comfort zone as he spoke a few inches from my face. I had not encountered this nose-to-nose, smooth-talking, passive-aggressive style before but soon learned that, unlike a brash American big shot CEO, David Platz had developed subtle means to keep you in your place.
I immediately got the distinct impression that bringing me here was all Denny’s idea and that, perhaps, David had a ‘thing’ about Americans: a negative ‘thing’. This was confirmed later when I had one-to-one meetings with Platz. Ironically, as I was to learn, he wasn’t English at all, but came to England as a young Jewish refugee during the Second World War. He had tragically lost his parents in Germany, but his aunt, Mrs Harvey, the chief accountant at Essex Music, fostered him. Mrs Harvey was soon to become my ‘aunt’ too. But in every other way, David Platz was quite the upper-crust Englishman.
Our initial meeting was brief, just an exchange of pleasantries really, but it had an ominous feeling. He was a proud man, and it is no accident that the initials of Essex Music International are EMI, and that David Platz’s idol was Sir Joseph Lockwood, president of the other, iconic British record company EMI. To the young hippie I was, David