Record Companies and Other Dubious Bastards
In the early days of being in a band, securing a record deal was the dream. We pictured studios kitted out like the deck of the star ship Enterprise, gigs with a dressing room, roadies, food, and a working tour van. To secure said record deal, we'd need a demo – a proper demo.
Up to this point, in late 1992, we had recorded about ten tapes on a shonky Tascam four-track, which was held together with hope and beer residue. The last tape we did, a compilation of the previous demos entitled 'Why Bother Firing,' had reached a spot in the NME top ten of Avant-Garde Industrial releases. This was thanks to a friend of ours, but still, "bragging rights, innit?"
The decision was made: we had to go into a studio. We'd been recommended one in Blaenau Ffestiniog called 'Pharmacy Studios' which, as you can guess, was in an old pharmacy.
Phone calls, dates, and the selling of kidneys were sorted to pay for this two-day extravaganza. We loaded up the assortment of synths, drum machines, computers, and samplers and headed into the mountains.
It was a great studio, with great people, and at the end of two days, we had six tracks which would become our first proper release, 'Dead Girl Opened.' A friend did the artwork, and by selling another kidney, we managed to scrape enough cash to get 100 cassette tapes made and the covers printed.
We set aside 50 to sell and 50 to send to record companies. No internet these days, so trawling through various magazines, zines, and telephone directories, we made a list and got them sent.
I used to keep the rejection letters; some were fairly standard, some had a comedic twist, and some were just downright rude. Mainly at this time in the music industry, all the companies were looking for bands that sounded like Nirvana, and most rejection letters kept reiterating that, over and over again. We had started tape trading with other bands around the world; it was fantastic, really. Five tapes here and there, we set up a little catalogue selling some rather brilliant work from bands all over. If they didn't have tapes to trade, they would send other things, including 200 unsmokable Lithuanian cigarettes, which consisted of the finest cloth, wood, and asbestos money could buy.
Every day, letters would come: money orders, other bands' tapes and vinyl, bizarre letters about Satan, a penpal in jail in America who now had my home address, a 7" vinyl with a free condom. Then one day, a letter from a record company – not a snarky rejection letter either, but talks of a deal, a record deal! It was a small company based up in the Newcastle area. After a phone call, we headed to the pub to get drunk, convinced that we were on the cusp of greatness.
After a few weeks went by with promises of tours and record releases, the greatness sank to the inevitable bullshit. I think they may have been called Vice Records, possibly. They seemed keen on getting some of their other bands to come and play North Wales, as previously, bands never really came here that much. We had secured a little venue where we would host band nights every week, so this seemed an ideal opportunity to play with some more established bands.
Cradle of Filth at the time were kind of on the outer rim of fame, and this won't be the only time I mention them in these stories. Vice Records wanted to put them and another band on at the venue, so dates were arranged, venue booked, everything sorted. We set out with our usual bucket of paste and posters late at night and covered Bangor.
By the day of the gig, we hadn't heard much from Vice. We phoned; no answer. Fears were setting in. Ever the optimists, we arrived at the venue to set up. Word had spread; it was going to be a busy one. More unanswered calls, more beers to calm the nerves. By the time the doors opened, we had to call it; no sign of the main or support act. Quite a few f***ing people though, who weren't very happy.
We never heard from Vice Records again.
The next record company we encountered was through a mate from a band called Headbutt, whom we had toured with as their support act (mainly because we had a van). I'll cover that tour in a separate piece.
This company was called Kill City Records, based in London, and they had a proper office. Phone calls were exchanged, ideas and more big visions were told. Hell, this one definitely sounded like the big time.
They wanted to meet us, to talk ideas, so we would need to go to London. My first suspicions should have been aroused when they wouldn't pay for the train but would pay for the finest National Express coach, as long as we kept the receipts.
Seven hours of sniffing other people's farts, unable to smoke, and zero entertainment was not a good start. Arriving in the Big Smoke, we had arranged to stay with our mate from Headbutt for the night and then meet the company the following day.
The man from Headbutt decided to give us the lowdown on Kill City Records, giving us some basic do's and don'ts. Mainly, one of us should stay sober as Trev, the guy we were meeting, had a habit of getting you drunk and making you sign anything. Also, rumours were abound that the record company and its partner companies were just money laundering covers for drug operations. We took this all on board, but in honesty, we just wanted someone to take us seriously and offer us a deal. A record deal, not a drug one.
The following day, we set off, wondering if we would either get signed or be drug-muling 10kg of heroin, stuffed up our arses, back to North Wales.
The offices were in Islington; they were really nice with lots of desks and people working. Promotional stuff everywhere – shit, big time.
Trev appeared. I'm 6'4", and he was taller than me, with purple-tinted glasses and the shaved head, tiny ponytail at the back Psychic TV look. Generally, a scary-looking f***er.
He ushered us both into the office, adorned with Sixth Comm posters and other releases. What drew my eye first was the shotgun casually propped up against his filing cabinet behind him. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and some glasses, as you do at 10 am. I had won the rock, paper, scissors of the band, so I got to drink while my partner had to stay sober.
Much talk was made: future of the band, expensive recording studios, CDs, tours, money. And my head was getting bigger and fuzzier thanks to the whiskey and ego stroking. They wanted some live recordings before going ahead, so that was the plan. We finished the meeting and handed in our coach receipts, were given a shedload of CDs and merchandise, and then we were whisked off for Mexican food at a local restaurant and more booze. Trev was a really likable guy, easy to talk to, and knew his stuff.
We left on a cloud, buzzing through London, feeling like goddamn rock stars.
The following day, and another seven hours later, we arrived home. Over the following month, we pieced together some live recordings and sent them off.
Through various phone calls and arrangements, we didn't see Trev again until we toured. We had a day free after a show in London and headed to Weymouth (see previous story).
We met in a pub in Islington again, this time with another record company man who would go on to feature in the history of Skinflick and ran Coldspring Records. After a few beers and more indefinite plans, we left with Trev, who shoved £50 cash in our hands to help with the tour and then took us around an antique military shop from where he used to buy a lot of knives, which apparently he collected. Sometimes it's just best not to ask questions.
After that, things went really quiet. Over the coming months, we couldn't get hold of Trev or anyone at Kill City Records. I heard from someone else that he had got cancer and was pretty much on his last legs. We sent condolences and got drunk.
Years later, I heard a rumour that apparently he had faked the cancer, as he owed a lot of money, and maybe not all of it legally.
After that, we didn't really try with record companies that much; it just felt so soul-destroying. Sometime in 1998, we were contacted again. I can't remember much about them; the guy who ran it really liked stone circles. He came to meet us at my flat with his wife and baby. While she went to breastfeed in my bedroom, he listened to our new album and made all the right sounds. A few weeks later, he sent us a CD of a band he wanted us to tour with; it was some kind of droning music with words about stone circles and the like. It wasn't for us.
In 2001, the Skinflick lineup was just me and Duncan Black, a phenomenal guitarist I had known for about 10 years. I had been working on the 'Two Ton Loser' EP for about a year between work and other projects. I'm not sure how it came about, but Coldspring Records wanted to do a subsidiary label called Zero Tolerance Records, and this EP would be its first release. At this point, I was set up with my own little studio: Atari ST running Cubase, 12-track Hard Disk recorder, and an assortment of synths, drum machines, and samplers. I had heard of this wonderful world of VST and computer synths, but I was your typical impoverished musician, and that was for the pros.
After finishing it, the next question was artwork. Zero Tolerance wanted to use a good friend of theirs, Mr. Nigel Wingrove, head of Redemption and Salvation Films. Also the artistic mind behind the early success of Cradle of Filth with their artwork.
So everything finally came together. We needed to tour, a live band was put together, another Misery Machine procured, and the open road awaited.
The CD came out, was met with some pretty favourable reviews, most of the gigs were going well, a slot at Wave Gotik Treffen and Infest – both big festivals – but as with everything Skinflick-related, that record deal fell apart.
So, in full punk DIY ethos, we said "f*** it," and went back to our tape-trading roots and started printing small runs on our own label, Dead Sexy Records. We even drafted in some other bands.
That all lasted till about 2007, and then the internet came into its own, so everything just went online. Before Skinflick version 2.0 in 2001, Skinflick had also been known as Skinflick Productions, Skinflick Corporations, and Skinflick Mutilations, and probably some I've forgotten. I was horrified to see how much some of those early tapes were going for on Discogs.
It was never about making money; I have had various shit jobs to cover that aspect. In the 35 odd years, I've point-blank refused to tone it down, to change it, to sing in a different language, to charade as a goth band in overpriced clothes, to be an image over f***ing substance that I had seen countless times in many gigs we had played, to make it anything other than what it is.
So, weirdly, I'm grateful that a record company never worked out, as I'm free to keep making my weird, niche little music, my mental health haven. And if a few people hear it and they connect with it and it helps or makes them happy, then that's better than any record deal.
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