GLADYS ALONE

Against all Advice - All I want to do is sing  - Artists and Repertoire - Ghost Girl Reprise - Going Underground -

Gladys is 16 and she’s super ambitious to make it as a singer in her own right. But everyone, including her sisters thinks she’s too geeky to be a popstar and should stick to her school books. Can she make it?

It’s been a few years since we gave you the Gladys and the chiX series, so let’s have a little catch-up.

Our Gladys grew up in Teddington, which is a town on the Thames, just outside London. Her older sisters, Mandy, Laura, and Sam formed the girl band, the chiX, which had a string of hits before breaking up last year.

The lead singer of the chiX, Laura, is enjoying a successful solo career and now lives in Los Angeles.

Although Gladys was never in the band, because she was too young, she wrote their early songs before they were famous.

Gladys is sixteen and has just finished her school exams, called GCSEs. Everyone expects her to go into the sixth form, and then to a top university.

So now you know everything you need to know about Gladys and the chiX. Were you one of the people who cried when the news came out about your favourite girl-band breaking up? No of course you weren’t. You’re not a big softy like that – but it was kind of sad. Quite a few fans blame Laura. They say she was only ambitious for her own glory; but the truth is that Mandy and Sam did not want to carry on with the constant touring, the responsibility to the fans, the press tittle-tattle, and the trending hashtags. They weren’t even that good at singing and dancing. Laura was the one with the looks, the voice, and the talent. “Let her get on with being famous,” they said.

But what about Gladys? She still lived at home in Teddington with Dad.

One Friday, towards the end of May, she stood in front of the hall mirror. She was about to head up to town to have a TV dinner with Mandy and Sam in Clapham.

“Hey-ho, I’ll always be the little sis of the family,” she thought to herself, “but I’m not a child anymore. Nobody can tell me what to do with my life.” She applied a dash of bright red lippy and blew a kiss at her reflection. “Is my face pretty?” She thought. “Hmmm… Well yes – pretty ordinary, actually. But don’t be fooled, world. That’s only the way I look…”

Later she sat on the train as it trundled past Berrylands, fragrant from the sewage farm that stood by the side of the tracks, then Wimbledon famous for the Wombles and tennis; next Raynes Park and the big Victorian undertakers’ shop that filled the view from the train window, and eventually to Clapham Junction, where a sign boasts that it is Britain’s busiest railway station.

She walked through the passenger tunnel, and onto the hilly High Street lit by headlights and shop windows, and buzzing with Londoners heading out for Friday evening. Her sisters’ flat was a few streets away. It took up two floors of a white fronted old house. They had a garden at the back, but the evening wasn’t quite nice enough to sit outside.

“So how did your exams go?” Asked Mandy as she cut the cellophane off the Vulcan Veggie pizza and turned the oven to 200 centigrade.

“Don’t ask silly questions,” said Sam. “If she didn’t get straight A’s, then her name’s not Gladys Cooper.”

Gladys thought quietly to herself, “Well it isn’t anymore, because I’m changing my name.”

“I’ll find out in August,” she said modestly. Most people would have been surprised if she had got anything less than A for everything – but she wasn’t quite sure about her chemistry.

“Are you looking forward to being a big girl win the Sixth Form?” asked Mandy.

“No,” said Gladys.

“What do you mean ‘no’? It’s far more fun in the Sixth. School stops being like a prison. You can hang around in the common room and you can go out at lunchtime. The teachers call you by your first name. There will be more parties. You’ll meet more boys – older ones, not just the drips in your class.”

“I mean,” said Gladdy, “That I’m not going into the Sixth Form. I’m leaving school.”

She had just dropped a bombshell, but it hadn’t quite exploded yet.

“Like straight to Oxbridge University?” said Sam. “Oh Gladdy, you always were the smartest. “

But that wasn’t what Gladys meant. Her mouth was a little dry. She felt stressed saying this. It sounded a little brittle.

“Not to any university or school. That’s it, I’m done with exams.”

Now she had dropped it good and proper – The bomb had gone off. Both her sisters were trying hard not to look shell-shocked.

“So what are you going to do?” Asked Mandy.

“Sing,” said Gladys. Her cheeks went hot. However resolutely she spat out the word, it sounded reckless and silly. She knew what they were going to say next – They were going to say, “You’re throwing your life’s chances away. You don’t want to sing; singing is a tough business. Take it from us, we know – we’ve been there, done that. You’re far too smart. Get your exams first and then decide what you want to do.”

Actually, Sam and Mandy were so astonished that neither of them said anything for a while. In a way, their combined silence was more terrible than if they had actually started giving her the benefit of their elder sisters’ wisdom. Mandy chopped some extra mushrooms to put on the pizza. Sam set out the kitchen table with napkins and candles and chose some progressive rock for the music system.

Then the flack began to fly…

“You don’t want to sing, really, do you?” Said Mandy.

“Yeah, Gladys, you’re throwing your life’s chances away, you’re far too clever to do a thing like that,” chipped in Sam.

“But truly, all I want to do is sing,” pleaded Gladys. Her precise premonition of what they would say had not helped her dream up any sassy and convincing replies. She had already told her teacher about her decision, and that had been an even more uncomfortable interview. She had felt the weight of her mentor’s disappointment pressing down on her. Her father had been easier. He had said,

“Are you sure Gladdy?” Then, “Well, you’re a smart lass. Do what you think is best.” That was the sum of his parental guidance and support. Well, he was busy at the time, sorting out his old vinyl record collection.

But Mandy sounded far more like her teacher had done. “Get your exams done first, and then decide what you want to do, that’s my advice,” she said; not mentioning that she herself had only lasted a year in the Sixth Form before being chucked out. The school didn’t like lazy failures in exams – so they got rid of them before they had a chance to mess up their statistics.

Gladys knew that if she followed the path everyone expected her to take, through the sixth form at school and then university, she would be 22 years old before she got started in life – and that was so grown up that it was ancient. You could never be too young to make it in music. Maturity and wisdom are weights around your neck in the stormy waters of pop.

“I can see why you might feel envious,” said Sam. “Your big sisters swan around the world enjoying fame and fortune while you stay at home with Dad and his motorcycle. But look, neither Mandy, nor I ever got that famous or that fortunate or that rich. We did all that work, and now all we can afford is this little flat in Clapham. That’s it! Laura’s the one who has all the attention because she’s got long legs and a big mouth, and you can’t ignore her. But you’re not like that Gladdy. You’re – well – clever, and nice, and a bit shy. I can’t see you out there on the circuit, night after night, plastering your stage makeup on in the dressing room, squeezing into outrageous outfits, and prancing around with a radio microphone strapped to your head like you were some sort of alien. It’s just not you Gladys.”

“How do I know?” Said Gladys, feeling upset, and wishing she could keep her cool. “I haven’t tried yet.”

Sam pressed her phone and changed the music on the sound system.

“Oh not that!” Exclaimed Mandy, as the first few bars of Laura’s latest single began to play.

Their sister’s voice wrapped out,

“I’m your queen, you love me mean. I’m the cruelest lover you’ve ever seen.”

Gladys hated those words. She reckoned the record company had given them to Laura to harden her image.

Sam was actually twerking, pointing her rear end at Gladys. “Come on Glad,” she said, “I thought you wanted to do this.” In her time with the chiX, Sam had a personal dance instructor, and she had learned some slick steps. Still, wriggling one’s bum, however skilfully done, never looks that dignified. Gladys had never been that comfortable dancing just normally. She remained seated in her chair. She sat there thinking, “They don’t believe that I can sing my way to the top, but I will do it because I want to do it, and when I want to do something I set about doing it properly, and nobody or nothing can stop me.”

She caught the last train back to Teddington. It was full of office workers who had hit the pub at 6pm and were now slumped in their seats and in danger of sleeping past their stops. Some of them were plugged into headphones with the bass thumping louder than the clackety-clack of the train.

“Are these the people who will download my songs?” Thought Gladys. “Will they have my voice playing in their heads? If this was a year from now, and if that guy sitting opposite opened his eyes, would he see me and know that I’m Gladys? Would he know my songs, and my words, and my feelings that I had sung about, even though I wouldn’t know anything about him? Is that what it means to be famous? To be known, but not to know those who know you? Hmm, perhaps he might even fancy me, even though he had never met me, wouldn’t that be funny?”

When she got home, she sat crossed legged on the bed and strummed her guitar. She found it soothing. She was more of a pianist really, and was just learning a few chords, but she felt that a singer-songwriter should be able to play the guitar, because it looked kind of clever and independent, and cute.

She sang, “All I want to do is sing!”

And a few minutes later, she reached over to the table for a pencil and paper, and scribbled down some words and some chords. Yes, she, Gladys, was going to stand up in front of the world and sing.

When Gladys was ten years old, she had hung out in recording studios quite a bit. But hanging out was about the sum of it. She was on the boring side of the soundproof glass, in the part of the studio with all the knobs and dials. Quite often, her nose was in a book.

Her sisters were on the fun side of the of the glass, where the action is, standing behind the microphones with their headphones on, singing and jiving, and making hit songs.

In her heart, she knew that she was the one with the musical talent, not her sisters. They didn’t even work hard. They thought the world just owed them fame, and somehow, it gave it to them. It wasn’t fair, but Gladys learned early on that Fairness and Real Life are strangers to one another. The feeling that she was most familiar with was a big pang in the stomach, like an arrow, that said, “Hey Gladys, that should be you up there!”

Her sisters’ first hit song was called “Life is a Circus” – and Gladys had written it.

As she was the author, the music publisher sent her money – what are called Royalty Payments. Nice, but Gladys was just a kid. Money was not really what she wanted – What she wanted was recognition.

Her dad did need the money. Even Gladys could see that their house was in danger of falling down if they didn’t actually spend something on it. The main feature of the living room was a large crack in the wall above the French windows. The bath looked like it had been used as a sheep dip; the shower was broken, the kitchen belonged in a museum. Her sisters were richer than she was, but they were off touring the world; so she gave most of her money to her dad, and she didn’t miss it. Her mother kept on getting in touch and asking her for funds. She didn’t give her anything. After all, she had upped and left when Gladys was just three years old.

Now she had just £800 in her account. If you judged by the standards of sixteen-year-old schoolgirls, not pop divas, well, she was practically rich. She knew how she was going to spend every single penny of it, however. She was going to buy time in a recording studio – on the right side of the soundproof glass.

She found a music producer in Raynes Park, the place with the big undertakers that you can see out of the train window. Basically it was at the shabby end of Wimbledon. The door to the studio did not promise musical sophistication or technical wizardry. She eventually found it down an alley beside a Chinese herbal medicine shop. But that was okay, because music culture is meant to be a bit grungy.

Inside it was actually quite cosy, very much like a flat, with a kitchen, a bathroom, and a chill out area. The recording part was set up in what looked like a front room.

But the best part was this: the whole setup was at her disposal. Now at last it was Gladys’ turn, if only because she was paying.

Tim the producer sat behind his mixing desk and flicked some switches, before he swivelled his chair round to face the keyboard of his electric piano. To be honest, he wasn’t quite the dude you might expect to find in the music business. In fact, he looked a bit like a male version of Gladys – sort of studious. His wife, who ran the business with him, was pretty, but nothing if not normal. In Gladys’ imagination, a girl who worked behind the scenes in the music business would probably dress a bit like a vampire, with dark mascara and blood red fingernails. Jennie wore a fluffy purple jumper. She brought them cups of tea. Her eyes were soft and sensitive.

“Do you play?” Gladys asked her.

“Yes; the oboe, the flute, the guitar and the ukulele. But mostly I do backing vocals.”

“Great!” Said Gladys. Perhaps, she thought, she had found a kindred spirit. Tim looked through her music and put his fingers to the piano.

“It might sound better here with eight bars instead of nine,” he said. Gladys wasn’t sure at first. She was the one paying for this recording session, and that was how she had written it. But she soon saw that he was right. Eight or twelve bars is sort of the rule with pop music, unless you have a really good reason to do it otherwise.

“And this key change here is a bit sudden,” he said. He played it a slightly different way, and it sounded a little more conventional, but actually more like a pop song than a quirky creation by a naive wannabe. She had to admit to herself, that perhaps she did not know quite as much about song writing as she thought she did. “But I am a quick learner,” she assured herself, as she watched Tim the song-doctor carrying out emergency surgery on her music. She glanced at the clock. As money was short, so was time. They had to get this masterpiece down for posterity before the next customer arrived.

They tried out different beats and tempos on the computer, and changed a few notes here and there. She had been at “Jammy Dodge” studios for about twenty-five minutes and it was clear that she had found a producer who was not only a great musician, but also a great technician, and had a super-nice personality, and a super-talented wife. He was even quite good-looking. In fact, he was so nice it was almost annoying.

“But I am a bit like he is,” thought Gladys, “which is a good sign, surely? It shows that someone like me can belong in this weird world of music.” She asked Jennie how they had gotten started, and she replied,

“While we were still at university. Tim did Maths and Music. I did Music and Drama. We saved up for some basic equipment and opened a recording studio for student bands.”

For the first time in her life, Gladys felt a little inadequate on the academic front. It seemed that university might not be such a bad path into the music business after all, but she could not dwell on that for long. It was time for her to go into the vocal booth and put on her headphones. Whoever had been singing in there previously must have been a giant, because the microphone towered over her head. Jennie adjusted boom down to her height. Tim nodded on the other side of the glass and spoke through the talkback: “Ready?” Gladys gave him the thumbs up. She heard the beat of the electronic drums through her headphones and Tim’s intro on the piano. She opened her mouth and sang:

“It brings us happiness

When we are sad

It helps me come alive

When things go bad

So tired of singing the same old songs

Wanting for something better to come along

All we wanna do is sing

All we wanna do is sing

All we wanna do is sing”

She could hear her own voice through the cans. It was kind of weird. Even though she was concentrating on her singing, she knew deep down that this was fantastic. The whole session was all about bringing her creation to life. She was the one doing the performing, not the one sitting on the sofa watching her sisters take all the glory.

After a few takes, Tim was satisfied with the lead vocal track. Jennie took her turn behind the microphone for some backing vocals. They put down layer upon layer, experimented with different harmonies, higher and lower, and soon it was sounding like a whole choir.

When the singing was all done, and she had left the studio, Gladys almost ran back to the station. Her legs were too excited to walk. She was bursting to hear the final mix, which Tim had promised to send her by the end of the week.

It was quite late on Friday evening when she received the email with the download link. She clicked the mp3 on her computer, and sat back and listened to the first professional recording of her own voice.

able to help her with her career. He does however make some calls on her behalf.

In this episode, Gladys meets some tough talking business people at a big record label.

When Gladys sent an email out to a record exec, a reply usually shot back right away… unfortunately. Too often, it stated bluntly, “The address xyz @xyz.com has not been found”.

She had met loads of movers and shakers when she was young – well actually she still was young – but when she was little she had gone around quite a bit with her singing sisters and she had always asked for business cards, because she was savvy like that, but she had spent the last few years just being a normal school kid. Her stock of contacts for producers, pluggers and promoters was out of date. She needed to put her song in front the right people. She worked hard at uploading her mp3 onto all the social music sites, and emailing it directly to recording companies and promoters.

When her emails didn’t bounce, she assumed that they had landed on the right screen. She must have had about half a dozen chances out there.

She checked her email first thing in the morning. Two new messages were waiting for her – one reminding her that she hadn’t logged on to a game-site for a while, “Your Pink Tomogo is missing you,” it mourned. The other was from her school about the last day of term.

Eventually a reply from a record company turned up.

Dear Gladys,

Thank you for sending James O’Hara your mp3. As I am sure, you realise we receive hundreds of submissions each week, but we do listen to every single one. If we wish to take this further, we will let you know in due course.

Yours, Mira Simons

PA to James O’Hara

Head of Talent

She read it two or three times. “Well perhaps they will get back,” she thought. Then, a voice in her head said, “Oh Gladys, don’t be so naive, it’s a polite brush-off letter. You’ll never hear from them again.”

Back in the day, when the chiX were starting out, she used to work with Arny, their manager. She really missed him now. Arny had been born in the East End of London. His first job was pushing a tea trolley inside the office of a record company. He ran errands, showed willing, as well as a certain gift of the gab, and got himself promoted to the position of “plugger.” It was his role to chat up DJs on the radio and persuade them to play the company’s singles. Soon he was managing the publicity for some of the biggest bands of the 70s, in the days when rock stars had long hair and bad teeth and wore brightly coloured polyester jumpsuits. Gladys actually knew the names of the some of his clients, because they featured in her dad’s record collection. Nowadays he was the sort of self-made man who drove a pink Rolls Royce, actually, his was black and totally ancient, but it suited him. He had always looked after Gladys and treated her like a grown-up, even when she was little. Looking back, she wasn’t quite sure if he was just kidding her a bit, like grown-ups do with children sometimes… but no, even with hindsight, she didn’t think he was never less than on the level. He was genuine in his respect for Gladys and her gumption and her brains. But her desire to be a performer – well that was something else. Maybe he did not see her in that role.

Of course, when she had the idea to quit school and be a singer, the first person she called was Arny. The office manager had said, “I’m afraid Mr. Blackstone has been taken ill.”

“Oh dear. When will he be back?” Asked Gladys.

“We don’t know. It could be some weeks.” That sounded worrying.

“Can I, can I ask what’s wrong? I’m Gladys. He knew me quite well when I was little.”

“He’s had a heart attack. He’s in Kingston Hospital,” came the reply.

Nobody she knew had been seriously ill before… like in danger of dying… this was a first in her young life, and quite a shock.

Now Gladys felt guilty because she had only visited him in hospital once. That time he had been quite cheerful, but really did look gaunt. She had wanted to cry, and did not feel like going back to see him again. By now, she thought, he must be getting stronger. It might do him good to talk about business. At any rate, he could give her a word or two of advice.

She arrived at Kingston Hospital with chocolates and flowers.

“Ah Gladys, it’s like having an angel sitting on the end of my bed,” said Arny, who still had so many wires plastered to his chest that he looked like an old-fashioned TV set with the back off. She thought that because her dad had one of those in his workshop.

Gladys told him about her decision to leave school, and to try making it as a singer. She crossed her fingers, really hoping he would not give her the same lecture that everyone else had done. You know, the one about her being too smart to take a risk like singing for her supper, and that she should get her exams first. Were they passing a script around or something?

Arny sat up and rearranged his pillow.

“Well girl, I wish you luck, because the business has got a whole lot tougher over the past few years. It’s a lottery. A tiny handful make mega bucks. They rest get squiggly pop. What do they call the lottery? A tax on the desperate, or the stupid. You’re neither of those, but you need to know the facts before you start down this road.”

Gladys nodded. It was going to be tough. The only encouragement she had received so far was in an email from Laura in Los Angeles who had said, “Yeah girl, go for it,” without actually offering any concrete help. Perhaps it was true what some people tweeted. Laura was out for herself, not her family or the fans. As for her other sisters, well they were discouraging her. Everyone thought she was throwing away her life’s chances.

Gladys asked Arny if he thought she was crazy to give up a chance of a place at university.

“Well I left school when I was fifteen, but plenty of those singers who pretend to be from the wrong side of the tracks got good educations. Where was it Mick Jagger went? London School of Economics, wasn’t it?”

“Anyone more recent than that went to uni?” Asked Gladys.

“Funnily enough, I was just reading an article about Paloma Faith… it’s on the side table… here it is. Says she has an MA in theatre direction from the prestigious Central Saint Martin’s College of Art and Design. Look Gladdy, there are many ways to go in life. Now let me see if I can work the phone for you. “

Notices around the hospital warned everyone to keep their mobiles switched off, as they might interfere with the medical equipment, but of course, the real problem for Arny was he couldn’t live without his phone. He sneaked it out from under the blankets and called a contact in a big record company:

“Yeah, she’s really smart, and she’s known the business since she was ten years old,” he was saying.

She could hear the voice coming back that the chiX had faded fast and were yesterday’s sound. Laura’s last single had struggled to get into the top 40 in the download charts, and the only reason the studio hadn’t sacked her was because she was dating Simon Ferg of the Fergs and they didn’t want to upset one of their biggest grossing stars.

Yes, it was going to be hard thought Gladys. In a strange way, her connection with the chiX was going to make it harder. Their time had come and gone.

Arny was the sort of guy it was hard to say no to. He was charming and persistent. He wasn’t above using the fact that he had a heart attack, and it would be rotten to refuse him when he was down, and in any case, he had all day and wasn’t going to hang up until his friend had put a date in the diary to meet Gladys.

In short, Gladys got her first meeting with a record company. Not bad going just two weeks after making her first demo.

As a ten year old, she had been surprisingly cool headed and savvy about business. In fact, she was the one who sat up late reading her sisters’ first contract and pointing out the loopholes. But the funny thing was, now she was sixteen, everything was so much harder. The prospect of such an important meeting was starting to freak her out. How should she dress? Smart for a business, or cool for pop? First impressions are so important in a superficial world. What she needed to do was to strike an attitude – she knew that much, but however hard she tried, she always looked the swotty schoolgirl. How could she make them see that she was touched by destiny? She decided to dress smartly. She wore a white shirt and dark trousers. She would look like she meant business.

Gladys arrived early at the music company’s office. She always liked to be ahead of time. It made her feel on top of things.

The PA showed her into an empty meeting room with a big table, blinds on the windows, and the hum of air conditioning. A jug of water and a plate of biscuits waited on the sideboard.

After forty minutes or so, three executives breezed in, two men and one woman. Cards were tossed across the table. She was shaking their hands. They seemed to be taking her quite seriously – they were young, but they had impressive titles like Account Manager, A&R Director, and Jnr Director of Marketing. The one who did the most talking was Dave. The woman, Susie, sat back and looked at Gladys in quite a hard, assessing sort of way. Jude, who was the most chilled of the three, was pleasant.

“Have you brought a demo?” Asked Mike.

“Ouch!” Thought Gladys, “They haven’t even heard my track.” Of course she had the song on her phone. You would think that a meeting room in a music business office would have some sort of sound system she could plug it into – and it did, but there did not appear to be the right connector, even though it was probably the most common one in the world. Fortunately, her phone had quite a good volume on the speaker. She played” All We Want to do is Sing,” and they sat back and listened.

At the end, there was a painful silence. Dave looked at Susie.

“It’s quite eighties,” she said.

“But a sweet voice,” chipped in Jude who was clearly playing the part of Mr. Nice.

Dave sighed, “You’re young. You still have time, but you need to get out and gig. Get experience. Get advice. Come back to us in a year.”

Was that it? It sounded like he didn’t have anything more to say. Gladys almost rose up from her chair to go. Unfortunately, they did have more advice. Susie glanced at Dave and then turned her head back to Gladys, “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, and Gladys felt like she wanted to bolt out of the door, because she knew that she was going to say something harsh, like on those TV Talent shows, where the real entertainment is watching the judges rip the wannabes’ ambitions into teeny-weeny shreds. “But are you sure you are cut out for this? You’re obviously a clever girl with a sweet voice, but you need so much more. You need a look and a sound that’s either totally original or totally in the moment. At any point, we are searching for a particular type of act that’s hot in the charts right now. To be honest I don’t think the 1980s is coming back anytime soon.”

Gladys nodded. She almost said, “Thank you,” but stopped herself. Why should she thank someone for such a patronising put-down? She wasn’t going to fall into that trap. She wanted to cry, but she was determined not to give them that satisfaction.

“It’s true that you could work on your image,” said Jude, “and of course do lots of gigging to get experience. Tried and tested, that’s what you need to be.”

Dave said, “I hope we don’t sound too mean. Perhaps if I give you couple of stats about the music biz, you will know where we are coming from. 74 per cent of mp3s in the online stores are downloaded less than 10 times. That’s basically sales to mum, dad, a couple of aunts and a best friend. So quite frankly, almost everything does nothing. Zilch. On the other hand, 60 per cent of our revenues come from just five big artists with the company. Almost everyone new that we sign loses us money. So you see, it pays us to keep backing our winners. Signing new talent is a big risk.”

“But without new talent, there’s no future,” said Gladys.

“Correct. So we are very serious about A & R.”

Gladys looked blank. She didn’t like to say she didn’t know what A & R meant. She had actually heard the term, but wasn’t quite sure what it stood for.

“Artists and repertoire,” explained Jude. “It’s what I do. I nurture the new talent. Like Dave says, we really care about the future, but at the end of the day, it’s a business, and we have to back winners or there will be no business, and nobody will benefit if that happens. Not the musicians. Not the fans. Not nobody.”

“In two plain words,” added Susie, “It’s tough out there. Well that was four words, but four true ones.”

Gladys had got the idea. Not only were they saying, “No,” but also they were saying, “Don’t even bother trying.”

She left the office with tears in her eyes, not of disappointment, but fury. “What a patronising bunch of smug jobs-worthies!” She thought to herself. “It gives them some sort of perverted pleasure to smash risk-takers’ dreams while they claim their safe salaries. Well, my belief is stronger than that. I’m keeping it in tact.”

At the age of ten years old, Gladys had feelings that were a little troubling in one so young: sometimes she felt just like she was a ghost. People seemed to look right through her. Nobody noticed that she was the talented sister.

Now she was sixteen, she was sitting at her desk turning the pages of her old notebooks and she found her first draft of her song “Ghost Girl.”

Always, when I’m near you

You don’t see me

I’m a Ghost Girl

See-through!

Sometimes, when I hear you,

You don’t hear me

I’m a Ghost Girl

It’s true!

Often, when I touch you,

You don’t feel me

I’m a Ghost Girl

For you!

The sixteen-year-old Gladys thought, “So not that much has changed.” She was still the one with the talent, and yet still nobody seemed able to see it.

“It’s the way I look,” she thought, “I’m too ordinary.”

Then, “Perhaps it’s my body language, I don’t walk into the room like everyone should notice me.”

And, standing in front of the mirror for a while, “I need new clothes, I need new hair, I need a new face, I need a new personality, but apart from that I don’t need anything much. Simple. I’ll be famous tomorrow.”

“Ghost Girl” had been a hit when the chiX sung it. It irked her that they took the credit for that song, much more than it bothered her about “Life is a Circus” which she had also penned for them. You see, Gladys wasn’t just the author of the words to “Ghost Girl,” she felt them, she identified with them. She was Ghost Girl. So she decided to record it. After all, it was her song. She had a right.

Her second time in the recording studio was even better than the first. She knew the routine. Tim looked through her words and music and changed a few notes and chords – things that even the producer at the big studio had not touched when her sisters had done it. Jennie stood over their shoulder and said, “I remember this song, did you really write it when you were just ten Gladdy?”

“Yes,” said Gladys, “I did. Because I was the ghostwriter for the chiX. They were singing about me, only they didn’t really understand that.”

Tim and Jennie were taking her really seriously. She felt it, and it gave her confidence. She wasn’t just any teenage wannabe. She had written a song that had made it into the charts. When she went behind the soundproof glass, stood at the microphone and put her headphones over her ears, she felt like a real pro. She opened her mouth and sang, “Gho–ooost girl, goohoost girl.”

“Sounding great,” said Tim in her headphones.

Jennie sang the harmonies again. Strictly speaking, Tim spent more time mixing the track than Gladys had paid him for, but he didn’t mind because he loved the song so much, and he had a client that he thought was just a bit special. In fact, right then, Tim and Jennie were the only people who really believed in her. As she trundled back to Teddington on the train, the tune was playing in her head.

As she didn’t have a manager, she had to book her own gigs. She looked through Time Out to see where the Indie bands and singers were playing. They were in pubs and clubs mostly. She had followed her sisters to one or two of them as a child. Of course she had to stay away from the bar area. She remembered semi-dark rooms upstairs, pealing wall paper, cables from the sound system trailing across the floor, bemused onlookers, and the lead singer trying to talk to the punters in a cool offhand way while the audience carried on with their own conversations, and supped their drinks. Occasionally there would be one performer that would set the place alight and get everyone on their feet dancing. She had to be that act.

She spent an afternoon on her phone ringing venues. It has hard work getting hold of the right person, waiting for them to get back to her, and then pitching herself to them. “I’m a singer-songwriter – just getting started – I would like to play at the XYZ club – do you have any evenings coming up?” The responses weren’t very full of encouragement.

“Sorry love, we’re fully booked for the next six months.” Or, “Where have you played before?” Or, “How many likes have you got on your Facebook page?”

“I could send you some of my songs,” she would say. Usually they didn’t seem that bothered about her music. They were mostly interested in filling their venue with fans. A sixteen year old girl who had never played anywhere before and had six likes on Facebook was not obviously going to be good for business.

“If only I knew someone who could help,” thought Gladys.

The frustrating thing was that she did actually know quite a few people who could help, if they wanted to. Some of them were her own family, but weren’t so inclined, and that was the problem. The closer they were to her, the more they thought she should be sticking with school.

She went out for a walk along the riverbank. She watched a barge go through the lock, then something clicked in her mind – Hadn’t she read somewhere that the lead singer of the Throbinsons had invested in a club in a trendy part of East London? It was a place that was showcasing new acts. She knew the Throbinsons. They had played many of the same venues as the chiX. Surely he would remember her? His name was Mickey. They were even friends on Facebook!

“Yeah,” she thought, “this will work.”

“Hi Mickey,” she tapped into the messenger app on her phone, “Remember me? I’m the little sister of the chiX. Not so little now. I’m starting my own career in the music biz. Any chance I could do a gig at your club?”

“That would be great,” came back the reply just five minutes later. “How about next Friday? We’ve got just one slot to fill.”

“Sure, would love to,” replied Gladys. She added an emoticon of a pretty fox with its tale high.

“Wowsie!” She thought, “It’s so hard to get anywhere, and then when you know someone, even a little bit, it’s that easy.”

It’s one thing to be a singer with a gig, but it’s another to have some backing musicians. Still, Gladys wasn’t the sort of girl to let a little thing like that stop her when she was on a roll. Surely, Tim at the recording studio would know one or two people who could hold some drum sticks or a plectrum.

“Well I could bring my keyboards,” he said over the phone. “Jennie could do backing vocals. I think we could just synth the drums this time around.”

“Yes! Now we’re rolling! “Thought Gladys excitedly. She started sending out invites to all her friends via WhatsApp, Facebook, and good old email.

Gladys’ school friends weren’t really the clubbing sort. They were more into staying at home and reading a book or watching a murder mystery on TV. They were starting to throw parties, especially when mum and dad were kind enough to go out for Saturday evening, but they were still a bit young for clubs and gigs. They serve drinks in those sorts of places, and in Britain, you aren’t supposed to go into a bar on your own until you are 18 years old.

She was somewhat surprised when Jamie, who was probably the coolest guy in her class, accepted her invite to her gig.

“Let’s see if he actually turns up,” she thought. Her friends Sara and Jay-Jay said they were definitely coming, in fact they agreed to travel together with Gladys.

On the night, they had trouble finding the club. They came out of the tube station which was further east than any of them had ever been, and they walked over the bridge. The navigator on Gladys’s phone was pointing to a grassy island surrounded by traffic. They managed to get across the road to it, but where was the club? According the phone, they had arrived.

“It couldn’t be that, could it?” Said Jay-Jay, pointing to a big metal sign and some steps leading down beneath the ground.

“Surely that’s a public toilet?” Said Gladys.

In fact, Jay-Jay was right. It was the club. The Throbinsons’ lead singer had bought an underground convenience and turned it into a nightclub.

“Well this is a glamorous venue,” said Sara as they hobbled down the stone steps in their high heels. It might not have been the most exclusive place in town, but it was still hard to get into. The man on the door said, “You girls got ID?”

“You see that poster,” said Gladys pointing to a picture of herself. “That’s me. I’m on.”

“Okay,” said the guy, checking her face like a passport official. “And what about you two?”

“They’re my roadies,” said Gladys. “I can’t go on without them.”

And so her friends got in without paying. Better still, they were given tickets for free drinks at the bar. They ordered soft, fizzy ones.

Tim and Jennie had already arrived, and were checking out the mics. “We’re on at 8.30,” said Tim. “I don’t suppose many people will be here so early. Perhaps that’s a good thing seeing as this is your first live gig.”

By 8 o’clock, the dank basement was starting to fill up with life. When Jamie arrived, Jasmine said, “Who’s that hanging on his arm?” She wasn’t from their school.

“Whoever she is, she looks like the cat who got the cream,” commented Sara, obviously bitten by jealousy. Gladys was pleased to have some good-looking people in the audience, however, who seemed like they might have the pick of places to go on a Saturday night, and had decided to come and see her.

Then she heard somebody say, “Hey isn’t that Sam from the chiX.” She looked over her shoulder and saw her sister. Kisses and hugs swiftly followed.

“Well Gladdy,” said Sam, “Now you know how we felt when we were starting out. Good luck to ya sis.”

“I’m going to need it,” thought Gladys.

It was time to check her microphone. While the engineer was adjusting the boom down to her height, she could see that people were crowding around Sam to ask if the chiX were going to have a reunion concert any time soon. She felt not a little cheesed off. Here she was, about to do her first gig, and she was still being over-shadowed by Sam before she had even sung a note.

She couldn’t see the lead singer from the Throbinsons. Presumably the main, perhaps the only reason to visit this dive was to grab a glimpse of him. Perhaps he would turn up later. Meantime Sam was giving the stargazers something to look at. Jezz, the manager of the club came up to Gladys and said, “Great to meet you. You’re on in five. I’ve asked your big sis to introduce you to the crowd if that’s okay.”

It wasn’t really okay with Gladys. She wanted to do this her own way, but she couldn’t really object. It really got everyone’s attention when Sam from the chiX was took the stage.

“Well, hi everyone,” she said smiling a starry smile. Sam looked kind of great, like she was totally used to everyone’s eyes being on her. She had grown quite tall over the last few years, had a slinky figure and a way of holding herself that gave out all the confident vibes that Gladys lacked.

“It is an unexpected pleasure for me,” she said, “to be standing here in this great little venue about to introduce my very own little sis.”

There were claps and a few whoops from the crowd.

“Her name is Gladys, and when she was just a little babe hardly out of nappies, we used to take her on tour with us.” She lifted her arms in the air to generate a chorus of “AHHHs” from the onlookers.

“As I’m sure you have all heard, Gladdy is actually the brainy girl in our family. This is her first time singing in public and so please give up your warmest welcome for the one and only Gladys!”

She held out the microphone and Gladys ran over to take hold of it. Gladys was half fuming because she wanted to shake off that sobriquet of “brainy.” She had to be cool and confident.

She fumbled slightly as she placed the mic in the stand. Tim was already playing the opening bars of the music. Gladys opened up her eyes as wide as she could and tried to engage with the crowd. They were a sort of blur. She could just about make out Sara and Jay-Jay who were standing in the front row. There was nothing for but to sing.

There was a biggish cheer for the song. Gladys did not feel excited, more relieved actually. Her next number was one she had to sing by herself at the piano. It was much harder on her own. Then playing the guitar and singing the song after that was even tougher, and she fumbled some of the chords, but nobody seemed to notice. Somehow, she got through it. It was an enormous relief to get to “All We Want to Do is Sing” where she had some voluminous backing music and vocals. Three girls were dancing at the front, but most of the others seemed only mildly interested. It was by no means a disaster.

“Thank you for being such a wonderful audience tonight!” She heard herself call out before she left the stage, thinking to herself, “That sounded corny, but what else could I say? At least the audience were clapping, if only politely.

As she was walking back to the corner and the table that she and her friends had made their own for the night, she saw somebody standing in front of her that made her almost say out aloud,

“Oh no, not her, please don’t tell me it’s her, I’m imagining this, it can’t be true.”

But it was true. A moment later, she was engulfed in a big bosomy hug and the smell of designer scent mixed with nicotine and gin.

“Mum, what are you doing here?” She asked when she was released.

“I saw it on Facebook; I had to come didn’t I?”

That was exactly why some of her friends weren’t on Facebook – so their mums couldn’t see what they were up to. Why had she accepted a friend request from her? She knew why – because it was rude not to.

As mums went, she was an unusual one. She had simply abandoned the family when Gladys was three years old, leaving them to their care of dad. She upped sticks and moved to Australia to join the new man in her life. The oldest sisters, Laura and Mandy, had never forgiven her, and more or less refused to speak to her. Gladys and Sam were so young when it happened, however, that they hardly remembered their mother at all. They only really remembered their dad and his struggles with cooking and washing. After about a month of asking, “Where’s mummy?” They more or less stopped bothering. Later on, Gladys wondered if she had died or gone to prison. Now she was back in their lives, Gladys and Sam found her embarrassing at best.

“Actually Gladys,” said her mother, “I’ve come to give you a good sound talking to. Step outside so you can hear what I’ve got to say to you.”

Gladys was wearing a skimpy dress, and it was quite nippy outside on the green. There was the roar of traffic all around, a police helicopter going overhead, and rowdy people out for Saturday night – it was hardly the best place for a heart to heart talk, but that didn’t stop her mother.

“What’s all this I hear about you giving up school?” She demanded.

“You know me mum,” said Gladys, “I like to do things properly or not at all. I’m following my musical career full time.”

“Don’t be such a foolish young flibberty jib,” scolded her mother, and then she actually slapped her across the face. The slap didn’t really hurt, but Gladys was stunned. What right did this woman who had abandoned her family have to do that to her?” She actually laughed. Her mother went on, “You’re making a wrong decision Gladys, you’re messing up your chances in life.”

“Well you never said that to my sisters.”

“They were different. They had what it takes to make it. Quite frankly, you looked silly up there on stage just now. You’d be better off in the church choir.”

“Thanks mum, for your advice,” said Gladys. “When I want to know how to be totally irresponsible I’ll come and ask you how to do it. But I’m getting cold up here listening to this nonsense, and if you’ll excuse me, I have to go back to my friends.”

As she marched back into the club, the doorman, who had just taken over the shift, asked, “Got any ID love?”

“That’s my ID,” she said angrily pointing at the poster again, and marched passed him.

It was crowded inside now, and as she was making her way towards her friends, a man said to her, “Hey Gladys, loved your act.”

She looked at him. He was tall and skinny; about twenty or so. He seemed kind of cool.

“If you are looking for a manager,” he said, “just give me a call,” and he handed her a card. At first glance, he thought it said that his first name was “Dude” but actually, it said, “Dud.” Presumably, it was short for Dudley. It sported a logo of an arrow, sort of Mod style from the 60s. She knew about that sort of thing because her Dad liked The Who. It said, “Scoot Ltd. Top representation for top acts.”

“Thanks,” she replied briskly.

“No really, give me a call;” said Dud, “I’d like to take you places. There is a long way to go and the best way is to get there fast. Why hang around, right? ”

“I’ll think about it,” said Gladys, and she went back to see her friends.

6 Gladys Alone: The Eye of the Needle  click here

7 Gladys Alone: The Triumph  click here

8 Gladys Alone: Are We There Yet?  click here

9 Gladys Alone: In Real Life  click here

10 Gladys Alone: First Date  click here

11 Gladys Alone: Snap Me!  Click here