GREG MOODIE

Band manager George Lyttleton asks Tony to 'think inside a box' and provides the box.

Fully assembled and bound up with parcel tape, the box gave the kitchen table a run for its money in the cumbersome stakes and left very little standing room outside of it. Lyttleton sat within, his eyes just visible over the side wall. He implored me to join him but I was reluctant. It may have been a collossus amongst cardboard boxes but with two grown men inside, I thought I might find it small enough.

After much pleading I agreed, knowing that the client, although certifiable, will nevertheless be funding my own expedition into alcoholic stupor.

We sat at opposite ends of our corrugated thinktank and I surveyed the surroundings. Lyttleton’s corner was already damp but luckily the cardboard had a distinctive smell that was strong enough to distract me from the less agreeable smell of festering lime-suited band manager.

“Where do you want to start?” said Lyttleton finally.

I sat back against my cardboard gable end and sighed. If either of us died at this point, the other would have some serious explaining to do. What if this were my final resting place? What if my legs gave out and from hereon in, food had to be served to me in my box? The district nurse would say it was ironic when handing me a seafood platter and I would curse creatively and throw pieces of scampi. It didn’t bear thinking about. I resigned to playing Lyttleton’s game instead.

“Do we have a name for the album?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he replied. “Any suggestions?”

“How about Zanussi?” I said.

“I think,” said Lyttleton, “the follow-up to Midnight of the Mole People has to be an even bolder statement, as the material is much stronger.”

“You’ve heard it?”

“No.”

If Lyttleton was saying the material was stronger it was because someone else had told him, as Lyttleton had no ear for music. Whilst a deep-freezer salesman might be expected to know something about deep-freezers, it was generally accepted that the same did not apply to band managers. Lyttleton knew more about fridge-freezers than he did about music.

“How about The Mole People Go Out To Buy A Fridge?” I said.

This was ignored and after 30 minutes of thinking inside a box, I realised I had suggested only fridge-related titles and white-goods visual motifs for the album. However, when I mused over the combination of seafood and cardboard and suggested Mock Lobster, Lyttleton was delighted his brainstorming experiment was working and decided to put the title to Campbell Glen.

“I knew this was a good idea,” he said from his now distinctly soggy end of the box. “And I didn’t even have to use this.” He produced a harmonica from his inside pocket and began playing it in a particularly childlike fashion, albeit with a blues-style rhythm.

“What’s that for?” I said, but he couldn’t hear me above the noise, compressed as it was in a deep-freezer-sized space. I stared at the wheezing little man opposite. It only took me a minute to link the harmonica to ‘Blues Guy Thinking.’

Thinking Inside A Box (Part 2)

July 29, 2012

Band manager George Lyttleton asks Tony to 'think inside a box' and provides the box. Fully assembled and bound up with parcel tape, the box gave the kitchen table a run for its money in the cumbersome stakes and left very little standing room outside of it. Lyttleton sat within, his eyes just visible … Continue reading →

In which Tony is urged to brainstorm in a most unusual manner.

Self-styled musical impresario George Lyttleton called to inform me of an impending release from one of his stable. I suggested under the circumstances a doctor might be more useful than a graphic designer. He responded with liberal use of the word ‘dolt’ and explained he would need artwork for Campbell Glen’s new CD.

In the 70’s, Lyttleton had a number of high profile bands under his wing, most likely until they realised he was less a manager and more a delusional fantasist in a lime suit. Now he was reduced to a single artiste, eccentric Scottish troubadour Campbell Glen. Described by New Musical Express as ‘a fruitcake extraordinaire,’ Glen was certainly odd. I met him once and told him I designed his last cover. He offered me a sardine.

Lyttleton said he wanted to push the boundaries of visual communication for the new album and that we should ‘think inside a box’ for ideas. He said he had spoken to other managers and they agreed this was the best method for achieving creative breakthroughs.

The trouble began when he arrived carrying the box in question. Even in its collapsed state it was enormous; too big to fit under his elfish arm so he clutched it with both hands slightly above head height. When I answered the door I faced a wall of cardboard and two sets of disembodied fingers. After the initial confusion, he shuffled in sideways, perspiring heavily and bursting out of his tight suit.

“I’ve never seen so much cardboard in one place before,” I said. “Have you been feeding it?”

“New deep-freezer,” he replied, catching his breath. “Top of the line. It traps moisture and transfers it outside so you get a lot less frost.” I thought frost would be a good thing in a freezer but Lyttleton thought otherwise. “40 pounds of seafood in the old one and I couldn’t get near it for frost. Needed an icepick. It was like an Arctic expedition every time I wanted to eat.”

“Couldn’t you just defrost it?”

“I did,” he replied. “Do you want some fish?”

Lyttleton shuffled uneasily and loosened his collar. I imagined he would welcome frost at this particular juncture.

“The point is,” he said, “I’ve got a new one now and it arrived in a big box.”

He rose and began assembling the box in such a manner that he would be inside it when it was complete. There was a certain Lyttleton logic to this as it would spare him the indignity of having to raise his little legs over the steep sides to get in.

Thinking Inside A Box (Part 1)

July 28, 2012

In which Tony is urged to brainstorm in a most unusual manner. Self-styled musical impresario George Lyttleton called to inform me of an impending release from one of his stable. I suggested under the circumstances a doctor might be more useful than a graphic designer. He responded with liberal use of the word ‘dolt’ … Continue reading →

In which Tony explains the tenuous thread that links him to The King and The Colonel.

My previous post, George Lyttleton Band Manager: The Early Years, elicited some of the most imaginative comments I have ever read.

“I’m not sure where you get your information, but great post!”

“Very Informative. I’m wondering why the other experts in this sector do not understand this.”

“You say so, but then Erasmus spoke from both sides of his mouth. Thanks for posting!”

Despite being Dali-esque in their freeform association of gibberish, I was delighted that I had given joy to so many with what was, after all, a very simple tale about having grown a band manager from seed.

Even though I wondered how the subject of band managers and rusks could be considered ‘informative,’ and just what sector we were dealing with, I decided that a compliment was a compliment, no matter how deranged. I wasn’t even put off when The Admiral suggested somewhat unkindly that the messengers hadn’t read the piece, and were instead trying to solicit links to an Asiatic cartel. Rather, I believed I had been an inspiration to Dadaists across the globe, and avowed to continue writing my journal if only to encourage the spread of Merz.

However, I was awestruck when I read the following response:

“Was Parker a great manager? I don’t know. Some people said he did a lot of great things for Elvis, got him into Vegas and Hollywood. But the Colonel lost $1m in one night in Vegas, and Elvis hated those stupid films. Then Parker robbed the world of an Elvis tour because he didn’t have a US Passport and wouldn’t be allowed back in. No, I believe Parker took advantage of Elvis and robbed the world of seeing the greatest entertainer/singer/performer in history.”

This judge and jury of all things Parker had chosen my journal to deliver this impassioned critique. No matter that I hadn’t mentioned Colonel Tom or Elvis – everyone writes a non sequitur of colossal proportions from time to time – it was a glorious rant. He was clearly a waffler of some standing and his reasoned but unrequested argument was taking Merz to a new level.

I considered asking for more of the messenger’s opinions on the Colonel and Elvis, and even inviting him to write this journal, but only in the three seconds it took me to find the delete key.

Elvis, The Colonel And Me

February 23, 2012

In which Tony explains the tenuous thread that links him to The King and The Colonel. My previous post, George Lyttleton Band Manager: The Early Years, elicited some of the most imaginative comments I have ever read. “I’m not sure where you get your information, but great post!” “Very Informative. I’m wondering why the … Continue reading →

In which LaFlamme's timely appearance saves Tony from more unnecessary pain at the hands of band manager George Lyttleton.

It was another throwback to Lyttleton’s 70’s musical pedigree.

“I’ve written a piece for the gatefold,” he said. What kind of gate is only four inches wide? I took the hand-written note and gazed at it blankly. “I think a written piece adds weight to the release, don’t you?” he continued. “We want it to have impact. It can’t just go off like a damp squid.” Once again, Lyttleton’s seafood obsession coloured his language. This time I was almost being drawn in to his world and finding the image of a damp squid going off sufficiently daunting.

Luckily at this point LaFlamme made a surprise appearance, arriving just in time to spare me having to read the piece. Lyttleton rose.

“LaFlamme,” he said, bowing his head slightly. This was unnecessary as she was already a head taller.

“I’m usually very good with names,” said LaFlamme, “but I’ve deliberately forgotten yours.”

Lyttleton shifted uneasily. “Well, I think we’re pretty much done here,” he said. There had been no mention of budget and that’s the way Lyttleton liked it. People like me should simply appreciate the privilege of working with such great talent and relish being a moth around a great flame.

“We can discuss costs later,” I suggested.

“Costs,” he said vaguely, as if unfamiliar with the term. “Yes. Of course.” He left to continue building his empire elsewhere.

LaFlamme meanwhile was flicking through Lyttleton’s photographs, casually dropping each in turn out of the open window.

By No Stretch Of The Imagination Can A CD Sleeve Ever Be Described As ‘Gatefold’

December 23, 2011

In which LaFlamme's timely appearance saves Tony from more unnecessary pain at the hands of band manager George Lyttleton. It was another throwback to Lyttleton’s 70’s musical pedigree. “I’ve written a piece for the gatefold,” he said. What kind of gate is only four inches wide? I took the hand-written note and gazed at … Continue reading →

In which Tony takes design direction from band manager and knob George Lyttleton.

“In the meantime," said Lyttleton, after outlining his plans for the formation of an executive production company, "one of our stable has a new album coming out, and we have the usual artwork requirements.”

“Who’s the artist?” I asked.

“It’s not important.”

“Just out of interest.”

“A singer-songwriter by the name of Campbell.”

“Glen by any chance?”

“That’s right,” he said. “Campbell Glen.” I made a mental note never to make jokes with Lyttleton as he had no recognisable sense of humour.

“I’ve brought some photographs,” he continued, producing a hard-backed envelope which I proceeded to open. They were pictures of himself in various holiday locations, grinning cheesily at the camera.

“Wouldn’t it have been better to bring pictures of the singer?” I asked.

“Well yes, but I didn’t want to prejudice your design. It’s important to me that you employ whatever type of image you see fit, I have no clams about that.”

“You have no clams?”

“That’s right,” he said. “I don’t care.” Lyttleton may have been as confused as I was generally but even I wouldn’t mistake misgivings for shellfish.

George Lyttleton Has No Clams

December 10, 2011

In which Tony takes design direction from band manager and knob George Lyttleton. “In the meantime," said Lyttleton, after outlining his plans for the formation of an executive production company, "one of our stable has a new album coming out, and we have the usual artwork requirements.” “Who’s the artist?” I asked. “It’s not … Continue reading →

In which Tony is visited by band manager and 'executive producer' George Lyttleton.

3pm

I awoke to the sound of the doorbell with a deep sense of dread. This was normal. Today it was doubly normal as I knew who was outside ringing it.

Band managers aren’t normally able to show their face in the same place twice due to the likelihood of them having done something embarrassing there in the past. But Lyttleton had no shame. He’d show up anywhere. He sauntered in and sat by the window. There wasn’t a chair there but he managed to perch on the sill, and in his slightly-too-small lime suit he looked like an over-stuffed parrot.

A relic from a bygone era – the 1970’s – Lyttleton was a man who had built a music industry career around doing nothing remotely musical. Short, stocky and wildly over-confident, he was never going to allow the fact that he had no interest in music stop him from being a success in the music industry.

It wasn’t that he actively disliked music. He just didn’t understand it. Consequently, he had no appreciation of musical skill or performing ability and actually considered himself the talent. “Anybody can be in a band,” he once told me. “The real skill is management.” Lyttleton’s actual skill was in projecting the idea that his time was invaluable. Anyone granted an audience should feel humbled.

He had epic delusions of grandeur. Despite the fact he was strictly a small-time operator, he insisted on giving his company overblown, grandiose names and having ‘associate executives’ who were other no-talent suits he had picked up on his way. There were few surprises for me when he outlined his plans.

“I’m about to announce the formation of a new arm of the business,” he began. “An executive production company called ‘Overhead Communications.’”

“Why Overhead?” I asked.

“It’s an umbrella group,” he replied. That’s what I get for asking. “A holding company for the other divisions.”

“How many divisions do you have there?” I asked, and regretted this question too as he rattled off a list of probably fictitious company names making frequent use of the words ‘incorporated’, ‘conglommerates’ and ‘united.’

It turns out an executive production company is one that doesn't produce anything, which is quite a feat for a production company. I couldn't wait to see what he had lined up for me.

Doubly Normal

December 2, 2011

In which Tony is visited by band manager and 'executive producer' George Lyttleton. 3pm I awoke to the sound of the doorbell with a deep sense of dread. This was normal. Today it was doubly normal as I knew who was outside ringing it. Band managers aren’t normally able to show their face in … Continue reading →