Mister Satan's Apprentice: A Blues Memoir

19. The Same Old Mess

C H A P T E R N I N E T E E N THE SAME OLD MESS First you say you do, and then you don't First you say I will, and then you won't You're undecided now ... so what areyou gonna do? —SID ROBIN AND CHARLIE SHAVERS, "UNDECIDED" ARGO WASA musician herself, it turned out—former keyboard player with an all-woman rock group named Isis— and her offices were across the street from Carnegie Hall. I subwayed down and took a meeting, demo in hand. Talent Consultants International was my introduction to the world of professional artistic representation. Margo had a staff of six, walls covered with Bo Diddley and Ron Wood Gunslingers Tour '85 posters lovingly autographed to her by Bo and Ron and Mick, and several framed gold records. I found out about the gold Mercedes later. I never begrudged her. She was a tough shrewd Italian dame—Lewis was a stage name—who'd made it in a man's business and did not flaunt. She calculated, flattered, and cared. Musicians were her love and livelihood. She'd found Bo wasting away in a Florida trailer park and coaxed him back into the big time by making promises and keeping them. She'd rustled up a band and put him back on tour, finagled top dollar from stingy promoters, given him a new life. 355 M Mister S a t a n ' s A p p r e n t i c e "Guys like Bo," she explained as we strolled into the tiny back conference room, "they've been hurt. Stung. Everybody in the business has screwed them at least once. I'm sure Mister Satan's been through the mill. So you're not gonna get anywhere with these guys unless you deal straight up and prove what you're able to do. That's all I did with Bo. Eddie Kendrickswas the same way." We were her next big project. She introduced me around the office. Her two prime booking agents, Mitch and Mike, shared a cramped corner room papered with Deicide, Gorefest, and Muckypup posters, bumper stickers reading "Deathmetal Lives" and "Lack of Planning on Your Part Does Not Constitute an Emergencyon My Part," and a large map of North America shredded with red and blue pushpins. Half-eaten cartons of takeout Chinese perched on desks littered with flung contracts and old copies of Pollstar. Plump, balding Mike, who seemed toadishly immobilizedin his swivel chair, had an English accent and was on the phone. "Look, asshole," he said calmly, his voice rising, "that's not my problem. If you—what's that?" He grimaced silently for a moment. "Oh bullshit. Bullshit!Listen to me. If you fuck me over in Newcastle , you're dead." The slammed phone rattled. Mitch was younger, my age, with waist-length black headbanger 's hair, glasses, a brutal resentful underbite—like Dana Carvey 's Garth in Wayne's World—and a sparkless affectless gaze, as though some crucial pleasure center had been burned out. He was Margo's main man; he'd been a musician once, too. She invited him into the conference room. He slumped in a chair and gazed blankly at our Satan and Adam publicity photo—a diptych I'd cobbled together—as "I Want You" crashed and throbbed on the room's compact stereo. "We're gonna represent these guys," Margo croaked briskly, invitingly. "Festivals, blues clubs. Whaddya think?" He glanced at me. "This guy Satan, is that his real name?" "It's kind of a street name, up in Harlem." He seemed vaguelydisappointed. "Is he into gothic?" "Blues, Mitch," Margo barked. "He's an old blues guy.R and B." 356 Harlem Blues "Like Bo." "Like Bo. Exactly.The only thing we might want to change," she continued, turning toward me, "is the name. I mean Satan and Adam—I love what you guys do, don't get me wrong. You're beautiful . But the name could confuse people, as far as a blues direction. Promoters, whatever." "It's who we are," I said. "I like the name," Mitch grunted. Margo shrugged. "Fine. Just a thought." OUR SESSION AT GIANT SOUND back in February had never, in Rachel Faro's eyes, been solely for the purposes of producing a street-salable cassette. She was thinking album deal, producer's fees, peer acknowledgment. She had...