How Soon is Now?: The Madmen and Mavericks who made Independent Music 1975-2005 (62 page)

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Steve Beckett and Rob Mitchell had nurtured Warp from its Sheffield roots into a label with a cutting-edge reputation and an ultramodern release schedule. Warp’s records were pieces of largely instrumental music contained in beautifully designed sleeves; the label had the feel of a virtual contemporary art space, releasing conceptual listening music and sophisticated and experimental party tunes. For the first time in the label’s history Beckett and Mitchell were beginning to feel like the label was in something of a holding pattern. A glance through the racks of metropolitan record stores or the highbrow music press showed that the Warp formula was being copied across the plethora of idm
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labels that had started in its wake.

‘I remember sitting at the top of the stairs in my house speaking to Rob and he was going, “This sound, if we just keep doing it over and over again, it’s just going to dilute what we’re doing. We’ve got to move on,”’ says Beckett. ‘All the demos we were getting at that time – it was just watered-down versions of Aphex and Autechre. We wanted to definitely look further afield and Broadcast were just one of those unusual bands.’

To the braindance masses, Warp signing Broadcast was not only a departure for the label, but a move that represented something of a betrayal of its purist electronic roots. For Beckett and Mitchell, any need to justify signing a real-life,
instrument-playing
, five-piece band, was symbolic of how much the label
had to change. It would also be a change that would initially prove expensive. ‘We’d come out of a history of people like Aphex Twin just walking in going, “Here’s your DAT,”’ says Beckett, ‘a DAT that, once it’s mastered, is going to sell 200,000 copies with no recording costs. Whereas someone like Broadcast, you’re putting them in studios working with producers, and so from a financial perspective, it got a lot tougher, but in terms of
long-term
growth it was obvious.’

Another, more fundamental change was Warp’s relocation from Sheffield to London. ‘We were just up and down, either on the motorway driving or constantly taking trains,’ says Beckett. ‘We were just starting to get aspirations for setting up the film company, and all the film funding and Channel 4 and all that was down in London –it was just starting to feel like it was not a definite thing but a possibility, so we moved.’

In 1998 Warp released
Music Has the Right to Children
by its latest signings, Boards of Canada. The album was an immersive listening experience; it echoed the headphone contemplation of the Artificial Intelligence series and added a disorientating layer of hazy nostalgia.
Music Has the Right to Children
’s sleeve was a fading, semi-perceptible family photograph. It perfectly captured the record’s atmosphere of haunted reflection. To Warp’s delight the album became one its strongest sellers, via the medium of word of mouth alone. Part of the album’s strength and cohesion lay in the band’s long gestation period, a trait they shared with other Warp artists like Squarepusher and Aphex Twin. ‘You meet people that have been doing all their work for years and years,’ says Beckett. ‘Boards had got this massive catalogue of stuff before they actually released anything. That’s why the stuff seems of a certain standard, ’cause I think a lot of artists just make something, then five minutes later they’ve put it out.’

The timing of Boards of Canada’s release was also significant.
Their album was released into a wider cultural landscape, one in which the Internet and information technology were starting to prevail. Warp’s releases became the daily soundtrack for a techie,
Wired
-reading audience of programmers and web designers as they set about building the digital future.

Warp became one of the first record companies to engage with the Internet, having been exposed to it via the popularity of its artists among the early-adapting digerati. ‘The Black Dog were on newsgroups before there were websites,’ says Beckett. ‘They were the ones that started pointing us towards it. I definitely at that time put all my eggs in the technology basket. I was absolutely convinced that guitar music would just become extinct and that the only thing that people would be interested in was music made by electronics.’

Warp launched its website, Warpnet, in 1997. As a consequence of the label’s popularity with the digitally literate, Beckett and Mitchell gradually became aware of the risks inherent in the new technology. ‘I had a meeting in Sheffield and had the Internet explained to me,’ says Beckett, ‘so I got the computer, bought the modem and did all this logging in and expected to be surfing the Internet and having virtual sex and everything within five minutes. We started realising, “Oh my God, this is the future,” but we didn’t at that time realise it was also a real threat as well. When somebody first sent me an MP3 I thought, “Hold on, why couldn’t I just send this to somebody else?” “You could.” “But why couldn’t I send it to 10,000 people?” and it really hit me.’

Another more serious factor emerged that was likely to affect Warp’s future: Beckett’s founding partner, Rob Mitchell, had been taken ill. ‘He was ill and he was getting more and more ill but we didn’t know what it was,’ says Beckett. ‘He had tumours all over his liver and pancreas and was told that he’d got anything from four to six months to live. It was just more numbing than
anything. You’re just sitting there going, “What the fuck is going … This doesn’t happen … happens to other people …’

When Mitchell sadly passed away in 1999, Beckett went on retreat to try to come to terms with the loss, parts of which involved his relationship with the label and how it was going to survive the end of their partnership. ‘After he’d died there was a whole time of personal upheaval and soul-searching. Then on the business side, at the time I thought I was totally handling it, but looking back I realise I was just scrabbling around, not really knowing what I was doing. We always did pretty much everything together, so we’d master a record together, we’d travel down to London together – so we were just constantly bashing ideas off and then suddenly that element was gone. He was probably a lot more confident verbally and socially and the main thing that slipped was the connection to a lot of the artists. We split the roster between us so I was having to get those deep connections back with people – that was the hardest thing.’

Warp had lost Mitchell and the process of recovery began with the company consolidating many of the ideas he and Beckett had been developing. One of the most significant was the establishment of Warp Films in 2000.

Beckett also saw that his peers in independence at Domino and XL were operating with a renewed confidence and vigour. ‘I went for a meal with Laurence,’ he says. ‘It was before Franz broke. We both had the penny drop that, actually, we’re both quite good at selling records by really difficult artists, really difficult music – what could we do if we actually went for some of these bands that are ambitious and have got potential hits?’

Maximo Park, a band from Newcastle, had caught Beckett’s attention. Despite having offers on the table from several majors, the band’s management was happy to consider whatever offer Warp was prepared to make. For the first time in his career,
Beckett found himself in the environs of pub back-room gigs in the midst of a major-label feeding frenzy. ‘I didn’t know if I could do that,’ he says, ‘turning up to these gigs where all the fucking A&R men are there and people whispering that so and so had signed it already. We were suddenly operating outside our comfort zone, especially once we’d signed them it’s like, “Shit, we’ve got to do it now.” That’s even harder.’

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By 2005 Domino had sold over four million Franz Ferdinand records worldwide, the White Stripes and the Strokes were multiplatinum artists and independence, in contrast to the ailing major-label business, was thriving. It was a situation that would be put into sharp relief by the sector’s next breakaway success, Arctic Monkeys.

By the middle of the decade Mike Smith had risen to the position of MD at EMI Music Publishing, a division of the
company
that had remained profitable compared with the ailing EMI record label. Along with other colleagues at the heart of the industry, Smith had heard rumours of a young Sheffield quartet who were attracting unprecedented record-label attention, including that of the wizened music biz old guard.

‘The Arctic Monkeys were interesting, because, I remember, there was a serious A&R scrum in the spring of 2005. You were getting old-school A&R guys like Gordon Chartman, who’d signed Bros, saying, “I’ve seen this band, they’re really amazing.” And then Louis Bloom, who’d signed Busted, was going, “Arctic Monkeys are really fucking great,” and I went up to check it out in Stoke and I was just blown away. You had somebody out front who was really sharp and witty and flirting with everyone, all the boys and girls in the crowd, and you had these amazing songs, incredibly infectious, hook-laden, punk rock.’

Arctic Monkeys were content to play around their native
Sheffield and its neighbouring towns. The band had no desire to play to a showcase audience in London, a decision that had instantly made their signatures on a recording contract even more covetable. The band had the same effect on everyone who travelled north to see them and Smith put word through that he was interested in signing the band to a publishing deal. By the time Smith had managed to start a dialogue with the band’s management, he realised that he was in a fast-developing situation. Several record companies believed they were close to acquiring the band and a lawyer had been instructed to draw up contracts. ‘Obviously I wanted to work with them, and in the blink of an eye everybody wanted to work with them in the world, because they were just so undeniably fucking good – I think in my whole career, no band’s been more obviously destined to be successful – and then they made the decision to go with Domino, and the irony is, Laurence wasn’t leading the charge.’

The band’s decision to sign with Bell caught the industry, and particularly the pack that been in the hunt for the band’s signatures, completely off-guard. Domino had not been early to register any interest in Arctic Monkeys. There was a lingering impression that Bell had somehow managed to spirit the band away from underneath the competition’s feet.

As a publisher Mike Smith was in a position that put him at first remove from the hothouse of record company A&R departments. To him the band’s decision made perfect sense. ‘Every single A&R man in England wanted to sign the band,’ he says. ‘By working with Domino, I think they knew that they had somebody who would let them pursue their own artistic vision.’

Bell had been aware of the growing commotion attaching itself to the Sheffield band, but his instincts had told him that any band commanding such an intense focus was probably destined to become major-label hype. ‘I’d just been hearing the name a
bit,’ he says. ‘We didn’t have an A&R department or anything, so whatever’s going on uptown, so to speak, was never really that alluring to me.’

Once colleagues and contacts from within his own circle started mentioning the band’s name, Bell felt duty bound to explore further. ‘Trusted friends started to say, “You’d really like this band, you should really hear them,”’ he says. ‘I went round to see this guy who had the tape and he played it and burnt me off a CD, and my jaw fell on the floor when I heard it, and I took it home and I just couldn’t stop playing it and, “Oh my God, this is it.”’

As Bell registered his interest with the band’s management company, he was politely informed that to have his name added to the lengthening list of suitors would be of little consequence. With his confidence at a post-Franz high, and with a natural affinity for musicians that is rare in A&R, Bell was determined to at least become part of the conversation. ‘The manager had told me, “Oh, there’s about twenty-five labels and they’ve seen more than they ever wanted to. They’re not really that interested anyway, it’s just a bit too late.” So it was just a process of trying to undo that and get a chance to meet with them.’

John Dyer, an industry veteran who had previously worked at Mute, had been asked to join the Domino staff following the success of Franz Ferdinand; he had a rolling brief, one that included ensuring the company made best use of its newly secured fiscal position. If the label could sign an act with a similar commercial potential to the Glaswegian band, Domino could maintain its momentum as a cornerstone of independence. ‘Laurence was told by the Arctics’ manager that they’re about to sign with someone,’ he says. ‘“You’re allowed to see them but you’re not allowed to go backstage and talk to them and mess with their heads, all right?” He goes and sees them and
he rings them back. I get a text from him saying, “Went well, they’ve invited me back.” Next thing, they have to ring up their lawyer who’s been holding back the whole industry, it’s probably reached a couple of million quid or something so the lawyer is in a tight spot now, he’s kind of vaguely promised it to someone, then suddenly, hang on, there’s a hold-up.’

‘I snagged a meeting with the manager the following Tuesday,’ says Bell, ‘and one thing led to another and the conversations were good. Then, I was invited up to Sheffield, then I was invited back again, and that was how it happened.’

Even by the standards of the accelerated pace and heightened sense of anticipation that starts to surround a hyper-hot, unsigned band, the Arctic Monkeys’ signing to Domino left the industry breathless. ‘It all happened in about ten days,’ says Bell. ‘From hearing them to signing them, it was all done in about ten days. We were genuinely independent, they were genuinely independent-minded, and we had Franz Ferdinand under our belt, we had the hottest band in the world at that moment, and we’d just sold four million records for them.’

Once Arctic Monkeys were signed, the impetus around the band continued. Such was the demand for their sold-out London debut that the venue was upgraded to the 1,400-capacity Astoria. ‘The whole strategy after that was to keep them outside of London media,’ says Dyer. ‘This is so hot that media hasn’t spotted it.’