Inside Out by Nick Mason Page A

and his two henchmen. These three characters were clearly part of London’s underworld
     rather than underground. No loon pants or kaftans here, but Italian suits and camel-hair coats with velvet collars. Hands
     in pockets, the trio fixed us with an impassive gaze – they looked singularly unimpressed at what they saw.
    Andrew and Peter had talked to a number of agencies before deciding who to go with, including the well-established Noel Gay
     Agency in Denmark Street, where the bookers all wore morning suits. They, however, were asking for 15 per cent to represent
     us, while Bryan only wanted 10 per cent. Bryan got the job.
    Although Bryan’s sartorial appearance suggested an apprenticeship with a motor dealer, he had in fact attended the Central
     School of Art. His office opened as the management for the Pretty Things – whose members included Dick Taylor (who had been
     in the embryonic Rolling Stones) and Phil May, two other art school students – and then expanded into publishing and agency
     work. By the time we joined he had a substantial roster of artists, among them the Aynsley Dunbar Retaliation and Herbie Goins
     and the Night-timers, and later he added all the Blackhill acts, including Fairport Convention, the Incredible String Band,
     the Edgar Broughton Band, Tyrannosaurus Rex and Keith West and Tomorrow, a band which included Steve Howe, later of Yes.
    Bryan had a proper music business office at 142 Charing Cross Road, the Tin Pan Alley district. Situated above an all-day
     drinking club (a device to circumvent England’s then draconian licensing laws), I think it cost him all of £8 a week. The
     walls outside were covered with graffiti professing undying love for one or all of the Pretty Things and inside there was
     constant pandemonium. Bryan had dispensed with an intercom and justshouted at his secretary through the partition walls of his inner sanctum. In fact, everyone shouted, either down telephones
     or at each other. It was a far cry from the gentle, genteel world of Blackhill, which was decked out with kaftans and flavoured
     with the aroma of patchouli oil.
    In addition to his management business, Bryan was the sole agent for some of the key London venues. When managing the Pretty
     Things, he had realised the additional advantage of not only managing them but also controlling their bookings. But sometimes,
     even Bryan, with all his experience, could be fazed. On one occasion, he had done a friend a favour and agreed to represent
     another agency, splitting the commission. At one particular club, he met two brothers who were the principals of the other
     agency. During the meeting one of the brothers made his excuses and left ‘to sort out the exclusivity of the agency’ upstairs
     with the club manager. The next thing Bryan heard was the sound of a body bumping down the stairs. The other brother also
     made his excuses, and went over to add a kick or three to the prostrate body of the luckless club manager. Bryan, who preferred
     to persuade his clients with a bottle of fine claret, quietly slipped away. Only later did he learn that the brothers’ surname
     was Kray.
    Andrew King also encountered the tougher end of the business, though nothing in the Kray league. One agency was alleged to
     have dangled the promoter (and later Polydor label boss) Robert Stigwood out of a window to help resolve a dispute, and had
     an associate dubbed Pinky, who was reputed to chop the fingers off guitarists who were backward in signing their contract.
     The closest Andrew got to that world was going to collect the money for a gig at the Royal College of Art from an agency in
     Soho. Andrew arrived, the door opened, and he saw a Christmas party in full flow, complete with big-haired gangster’s molls,
     a party obviously funded by our gig money. He said he’d come to collectthe fee for Pink Floyd. ‘Oy, there’s a kid here wants some of our money…’ Everyone swung their attention to Andrew.