As a
child, Biddu dreamt of going west and making it big as a composer. At the age
of sixteen, he formed a band and started playing in a cafe in Bangalore, his
home town, At eighteen, he was part of a popular act at Trinca's, a nightclub
in Calcutta devoted to food, wine and music, At nineteen, he had college
students in Bombay dancing to his music.
In
his early twenties, he left the country and ended up hitchhiking across the
Middle East before arriving in London with only the clothes on his back and his
trusty guitar. What followed were years of hardship and struggle but also great
music and gathering fame. From the nine million selling "Kung Fu
Fighting" to the iconic youth anthem of "Made in India" and the
numerous hits in between. Biddu's music made him a household name in India and
elsewhere.
In
this first public account of all that came his way: the people, the events, the
music tours and companies Biddu writes with a gripping sense of humor about his
remarkable journey with its fairy tale ending. Charming, witty, and entirely
likable, Biddu is a man you are going to enjoy getting to know.
·
Describe
your writing in three words.
Light,
breezy and interesting. (I hope!)
·
Do
you have specific techniques you use to stay on track?
I’m
pretty new at this gig, so don’t have any techniques for writing. Altho’ quite
often I don’t write in sequence.
·
What
authors inspire or influence your work?
I am not an avid reader. Maybe one or two
books a year, max. I loved Shantaram. Great prose and the blend of fiction and
fact was truly engrossing.
·
Favorite
snack when writing.
I
hate to admit it, but I’m a junkie. (Food wise dude!) I crave crisps and
biscuits.
·
Do
you have a Muse?
No.
·
Who
gets to read your drafts before they're published?
My wife. She’s one heck of a critic.
·
Share
with us your biggest hurdles in the writing process?
I don’t suffer from writers block per se, but
often if I’m on vacation , say in Ital or the States, you spend time
sightseeing and visiting friends, shopping etc, ad working on the book is
placed on the back burner. So when you come back home and decided to crack on
with the book, the first day or two can be difficult.
·
What
project(s) are you working on now?
The book I’m working on is a ‘who dunnit’ set
in Spain. It’s a tough one, as I’ve never written in genre before. But, I’m
keeping it fast paced, interesting and entertaining.
·
Where
can readers find you and your book(s) online?
Biddu
was born in India, where he started his career playing in a pop band whose
influences lay in the classic repertoire of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones.
Following his early success, he decided to hear West and move into the
international music arena. He struck gold, signing the unknown Carl Douglas and
producing "Kung Fu Fighting?" which went on to become a hit all over
the world. He also wrote and produced hits for Tina Charles and soul legend
Jimmy James.
Around
this time, Biddu became involved in Indian music: he composed the cult
"Aap Jaise Koi" for the film Qurbani which set a new landmark for
sales in India He followed this up with a pop album, Disco Deewane, with Nazia
Hassan, which became the largest selling pop album in Asian history, and was
the first Indian album to hit the charts in fourteen countries. In 1995, Biddu
wrote and produced the three-million-selling album Made in India with the
singer Alisha Chinai. To date, Biddu has sold over thirty-eight million records
worldwide.
I now had it all: a head full of hair, a lovely blonde
girlfriend and a number one record.
The only thing
missing from this equation was
money. Since leaving
my job at the restaurant the previous month,
I was living on my meagre savings. It’s uncanny
how money
slips away when
you most need
it and soon, I was down to my last
five pounds. The
rent was due
every week and since
I ate on a daily basis, there were food bills to pay plus other
expenses that
cropped up
like unwelcome
relatives. Luckily,
this hit record
would save me the embarrassment of penury. I had been through
this cycle before
and finally I could feel
myself breaking free from the tentacles of indigence.
I was down to my last two pounds with my back against the wall, if not
going through it, when I decided to go and see the record company about an
advance on the record. I caught a bus to Oxford Street and wormed my way
through the crowds of shoppers till I got to the office. I managed to see
Roland Rennie, the gentleman who originally asked me to produce the record. He
told me I would have to go see the managing director, Jeffrey Black, who was
the head honcho at Polydor Records at that time, regarding monies and
royalties. So I went across to Mr Black’s office and requested his secretary
for a quick meeting. Ten minutes later, I was in Jeffrey Black’s expansive
office.
He sat behind his desk and did not get up to greet me.
‘Yes?’ he said, looking up. Apart from a George Michael-like growth on
his face, he looked a regular sort of guy. ‘How can I help?’
I told him I had produced the Tiger’s record, which had gone to number
one in Japan, and showed him my copy of Billboard.
‘I’ve seen it,’ he said, not bothering to look at the magazine.
I also had with me a copy of the record, which credited my name as
‘producer’ on both the sleeve and disc.
‘I would like an advance of £100 against future royalties,’ I said in my
best cut-glass accent.
‘All right,’ Jeffrey Black said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Can I see a
copy of your contract?’
‘Contract,’ I exclaimed. A feeling of déjà vu set in, reminding me about
the time when I was asked for a P45.
‘Yes, your producer’s agreement with us,’ he replied. ‘Have you got it?’
‘I’m afraid no one offered me a contract,’ I stuttered, meekly. ‘I don’t
have one.’
‘If you don’t have a contract, I’m afraid I cannot give you an advance.’
There was a prolonged silence while my heart sank and then journeyed up
to my throat.
‘Can I have fifty pounds?’ I gulped. It was all I could think of.
‘Listen, if you don’t have a contract, I cannot advance you any money. It’s as
simple as that. I need proof. I’m sorry.’
It may have been simple, but this simpleton had not the brains, or even a replica of it, to ask for
a contract when
he made the record. Since none
was offered at the time,
the idea of a written agreement had not occurred
to me.
I thrust
the disc in front of him.
‘Here’s my name on it,’ I argued. ‘That’s
proof isn’t it?’
He
shook his
head. ‘Listen,
without a contract I cannot
authorize a payment.’
‘Can I have
ten pounds, please?’ I said, not wishing to sound desperate.
‘I cannot,’
he replied stubbornly.
‘Can I have
five?’ A clear
sign I was desperate but frankly I didn’t
care if he knew. Of the two
pounds I had when I’d
left home, I’d already
spent 50p on a Mars
bar and the bus ticket.
If there’s a word
that’s more befitting than desperate, I was it.
He finally picked
up the phone on his desk and spoke to his secretary outside.
A spray of relief spread
across my face.
Maybe there is a God after
all, I thought
to myself.
‘Daphne,’ he said
‘change that booking
for dinner from
8.30 to 9 p.m.’ He put the phone
down and told
me one last time he could not give me any money.
