After a few minutes, an inner door opened and an unprepossessing young man slouched out. He wore a V-neck sweater with a shirt and tie, and he was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. “Right,” he said by way of introduction, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “We’re almost ready for you. Is this your first time in a recording studio?”

They admitted that it was.

“Well, our job is to make you sound your best, so just follow our guidance, okay?” He seemed to feel he was granting them a great favor. “Come into the studio and plug in, and we’ll take it from there.”

Dave said: “What’s your name?”

“Laurence Grant.” He did not say exactly what his role was, and Walli guessed he was a lowly assistant trying to make himself seem important.

Dave introduced himself and the group, which made Laurence fidget impatiently; then they went in.

The studio was a large room with low lighting. At one side was a full-size Steinway piano, very like the one in Walli’s home in East Berlin. It had a padded cover and was partly hidden by a screen draped in blankets. Lenny sat at it and played a series of chords all the way up the keyboard. It had the warm tone characteristic of Steinways. Lenny looked impressed.

A drum kit was set up ready. Lew had brought his own snare drum, and he set about making the change.

Laurence said: “Something wrong with our drums?”

“No, it’s just that I’m used to the feel of my own snare.”

“Ours is more suitable for recording.”

“Oh, okay.” Lew removed his own drum and put the studio snare back on its stand.

Three amplifiers stood on the floor, their lights showing that they were on and ready. Walli and Dave plugged into the two Vox AC30 models and Buzz took the larger Ampeg bass amp. They tuned to the piano.

Lenny said: “I can’t see the rest of the group. Do we have to have this screen?”

“Yeah, we do,” said Laurence.

“What’s it for?”

“It’s a baffle.”

Walli could tell, from Lenny’s expression, that he was none the wiser; but he let it drop.

A middle-aged man in a cardigan entered through a different door. He was smoking. He shook hands with Dave, who obviously had met him before, then introduced himself to the rest of the group. “I’m Eric Chapman, and I’ll be producing your audition,” he said.

This is the man who holds our future in his hands, Walli thought. If he thinks we’re good, we’ll make records. If not, there’s no court of appeal. I wonder what he likes. He doesn’t look like a rock-and-roller. More the Frank Sinatra type.

“I gather you haven’t done this before,” Eric said. “But there’s really not much to it. At first it’s best to ignore the equipment, and try to relax and play as if this was a regular gig. If you make a minor mistake, just play through.” He pointed at Laurence. “Larry here is our general dogsbody, so ask him for anything you need: tea, coffee, extra leads, whatever.”