The Secret DJ lifts the lid on the madness of major labels

Having checked in we knew we had arrived – Arrived, in fact, with a capital A. During much of the heyday of Britpop and global 90s exuberance the Metropole was equal parts legit disco venue (the famous Met Bar) and upscale hotel. We decided not to check out the rooms as we were late for our meeting, so we were waiting for our manager in the extremely minimal foyer, looking like nothing more than a couple of deranged vagrants, when we were approached by hotel security.

“Any chance of you cunts fucking off?” the bald giant said in a cheery voice. “You’re making my nice foyer very untidy.”

Which, to be fair, was absolutely true. The trouble with chic minimalism is it really show up the germs. Not having anywhere relaxing to sit or indeed attain a state of anything below mild panic is one of a hotel foyer’s intended architectural functions.

The abuse escalated as our manager arrived behind us through the doors.

Our manager: a deranged relic from a bygone age resembling to a tee a Scottish Joe Pesci. Small, loud and quite deadly. A manager from a time when the music industry had money and acted like it. I actually heard him bellow into a phone once, “PUT ANOTHER FUCKING ZERO ON THE END AND WE’LL TALK” – which is about as cartoon rock manager as it gets. He was from the Peter Grant school of management. Everyone, especially his clients, was an idiot. The only way to get anything done was to bully and swear at top volume. I once followed him out of a venue I was working at and watched him insult every single person on the way down five flights of stairs. He must have shouted random bespoke abuse at about 200 people, individually. “Alright wanker? Your hair is shite, love. Lose some weight. FUCKING UGLY CUNT! Them shoes are fucking prehistoric, man. Fuck me, tall cunt. MOVE YOU DAFT SHITE,” etc, etc, etc.

I sort of admired him in a way. He didn’t care at all if no-one liked him, and it wasn’t a pose. There was a sort of purity to it. Almost an aesthetic. He wasn’t one of those very funny angry Scots with creative televisually crafted swears; to be on the end of it was brutal and shocking. It was quite funny to watch, though.

“You! Fatty! I need a word with you!”

He never addressed anyone by name when an insult would do. In fact, if he actually liked you it was even worse. We stepped to one side for one of his famous ‘meetings’.

“Sign the deal. Get this fucking pantomime over with. They’re all a bunch of cunts at this record company, anyway. If you ask me, this is a joke. You need to get out there and earn. Fuck ‘being a band’. This isn’t the cunting sixties. Just get out there and DJ. Piece of piss and half the aggro.”

Despite discovering many years later (and to the surprise of literally no-one) that one of the reasons he’d been robbing his clients so blind was a humungous cocaine habit, the pint-sized psychopath may well have been proved right. Still, we signed the deal. And that night we eventually talked our way in to the hotel bar… to play our own gig.