They played for two minutes, then Larry switched everything off, and the group was silenced.

It was all over, and they had failed. Walli was more disappointed than he would have expected. He was so sure the group was good. Why could Eric not see it? He undid the strap of his guitar.

Then Eric came back. “What the fuck was that?” he said.

Dave said: “A new song we’ve just learned. Did you like it?”

“It’s completely different,” Eric said. “Why did you stop?”

“Larry turned us off.”

“Turn them on again, Larry, you prick,” said Eric. He turned back to Dave. “Where did you get the song?”

“Hank Remington wrote it for us,” said Dave.

“Of the Kords?” Eric was frankly skeptical. “Why would he write a song for you?”

Dave was equally candid. “Because he’s going out with my sister.”

“Oh. That explains it.”

Before going back into the booth, Eric spoke quietly to Larry. “Go and phone Paulo Conti,” he said. “He only lives around the corner. If he’s at home, ask him to pop in right away.”

Larry left the studio.

Eric went back into the booth. “Tape rolling,” he said over the intercom. “Whenever you’re ready.”

They did the song again.

All Eric said was: “Again, please.”

After the second time he came out again. Walli feared he would say it was not good enough after all. “Let’s do it again,” he said. “This time we’ll record the backing first time around, and the vocals after.”

Dave said: “Why?”

“Because you play better when you don’t have to sing, and you sing better when you don’t have to play.”

They recorded the instruments, then they sang the song while the recording was played to them through headphones. Afterward Eric came out of the booth to listen with them. They were joined by a well-dressed young man with a Beatle haircut: Paulo Conti, Walli presumed. Why was he here?

They listened to the combined track, Eric sitting on an amp and smoking.

When it ended, Paulo said in a London accent: “I like it. Nice song.”

He seemed confident and authoritative, though he was only about twenty. Walli wondered what right he had to an opinion.

Eric dragged on his cigarette. “Now, we might have something here,” he said. “But there’s a problem. The piano part is wrong. No offense, Lenny, but the Jerry Lee Lewis style is a bit heavy-handed. Paulo is here to show you what I mean. Let’s record it again with Paulo on the piano.”

Walli looked at Lenny. He was angry, Walli could tell; but he was keeping it under control. He remained sitting on the piano stool and said: “Let’s get something straight, Eric. This is my group. You can’t shove me out and bring Paulo in.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about that if I were you, Lenny,” said Eric. “Paulo plays with the Royal National Symphony Orchestra and he’s released three albums of Beethoven sonatas. He doesn’t want to join a pop group. I wish he did—I know half a dozen outfits that would take him on quicker than you can say hit parade.”