Mcbusted : The Story of the World's Biggest Super Band (9781471140679) Read online

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Parker

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Jennifer Parker to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-47114-065-5

  ISBN: 978-1-47114-067-9 (ebook)

  The author and publishers have made all reasonable efforts to contact copyright-holders for permission, and apologise for any omissions or errors in the form of credits given. Corrections may be made to future printings.

  This book has not been approved, licensed or endorsed by McBusted or their management.

  Typeset in the UK by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  For JB

  Thank you for the music

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1 Loser Kid

  2 Can’t Break Through

  3 Not Alone

  4 Room on the 3rd Floor

  5 We Are the Young

  6 Up All Night

  7 Party’s Over

  8 Walk in the Sun

  9 Sound of America

  10 Only the Strong Survive

  11 Nowhere Left to Run

  12 I’ll Be OK

  13 Don’t Let It Go to Waste

  14 Ticket Outta Loserville

  15 Step by Step

  16 That Thing You Do

  17 The Heart Never Lies

  Epilogue

  Author’s Acknowledgements

  Sources

  Photo Credits

  List of Illustrations

  PROLOGUE

  Friday, 14 January 2005, wasn’t a particularly chilly day – it was a mild 8 degrees Celsius on the bustling London streets outside – but the atmosphere inside the stunned press-conference room at the Soho Hotel was as cold as ice. Amid a cacophony of calls from the waiting journalists and a blizzard of camera flashes, the three men hurriedly made their way from the room, having just delivered the worst news of two of their young lives.

  The door closed behind them. For the first time in three years, there was only silence. How to find the words to say goodbye?

  They didn’t even try. Matt and James made their way, glumly, to the car park. It was grey concrete all around, as gloomy and as hard and unforgiving as the choices now before them. They faced each other, the end of everything written in the slope of their downturned necks, in their downcast eyes.

  They shook hands, formally, but almost immediately Matt flicked his long, dark fringe – styled just on the one side in the emo fashion – out of his eyeliner-ringed eyes and pulled James into a massive hug. This wasn’t the time for being cool.

  This was the end.

  James hugged him back, hard. He’d never thought it would finish like this. He pulled his baseball cap down firmly over his eyes, and slipped silently into the waiting car. The door slammed, echoing around the cavernous car park, and the car drove off. Matt couldn’t even bear to watch the tail-lights fade away.

  Which was why he was so surprised when he heard James call his name at the top of his voice.

  ‘Matt!’

  His bandmate ran up to him, the car in which he was supposed to be sitting somehow still in sight in the distance, travelling at speed – and yet James was very much here, now, panting and desperate, and clutching a tour programme in his hand. Matt struggled to compute what he was seeing, his forehead furrowed with the effort. James grabbed him and held his arms tight.

  ‘We’ve got to go back!’ he declared vehemently.

  ‘Back?’ echoed Matt. ‘Back where?’

  James paused for a moment – and then delivered the line to end all lines.

  ‘Back – to the future!’

  ONE

  Loser Kid

  London, 1999. It was an audition room much like any other. Eager hopefuls thronged the corridors, practising scales with gusto and wondering whether today of all days was going to be their lucky one. It was wintertime, and it was the age of the boy band: Westlife, Five and the Backstreet Boys were all riding high in the charts. Each of the young lads waiting nervously in that London studio hoped desperately that he, too, could emulate their success by landing a place in this brand-new band.

  One of them was sixteen-year-old James Bourne. He’d brought his guitar with him, as always, and plucked out a melody absentmindedly as he waited his turn to perform – perhaps finding the chords of ‘I Want It That Way’ by the Backstreet Boys, which had hit number one back in May, a song from Green Day’s classic album Dookie, or something by his idol Michael Jackson.

  Michael Jackson was the reason he was here, really. When James had discovered him, aged six, thanks to a tip-off in the lyric of a Bart Simpson record, it was a life-changing moment. Before then, he hadn’t had music in his life; though, according to his mum, he’d had a rather maddening habit of bursting into song in his pushchair as a toddler.

  Discovering Michael Jackson changed everything. Everything. Dangerous, Bad – these albums became his cornerstones, and, after seeing Jackson live at Wembley, James had only one ambition in life: he was going to learn to play Michael Jackson songs if it killed him.

  It very nearly did. James was a determined child, having inherited his father’s can-do attitude, which had seen Peter Bourne succeed as a self-made man running his own sales business. When James was offered the chance to learn an instrument at his preparatory school, Alleyn Court in Southend-on-Sea, he grabbed the guitar with both hands and played it till his fingers bled – literally.

  His perseverance paid off. It may have taken a few years, but he got there in the end; and discovered a talent not only for playing Michael Jackson songs but for writing music, too. And he loved performing. Aged ten, he’d taken part in a local production of the musical Oliver! and found that, like the lead character, he wanted more. An open audition for the West End production followed, and James had spent two happy years living it up at the London Palladium, playing first Kipper in Fagin’s gang, and then the starring role of Oliver himself.

  But you can’t remain a child star for ever, and James didn’t want to. As he’d grown up, his music tastes had broadened too: he loved Green Day, and the cheekiness of Robbie Williams’s lyrics. Soon, he’d formed his own band, Sic Puppy, and was writing original material. Aged thirteen, at his new school, the Morgan Academy of Performing Arts, he’d met an amazing girl, an aspiring actress called Kara Tointon, who was now his girlfriend. Life was pretty good – and he was hoping this audition was going to make it even better.

  Soon enough, James was called in to do his best. He went nervously into the audition room, barely noticing a brown-haired boy, also with a guitar, who was waiting his turn, too. All his attention was focused on the powers-that-be who were seated behind the desk. One of them was a confident American man by the name of Richard Rashman, of Prestige Management.

  Little did James know it, but that man was about to change his life.


  But not by casting him in this particular pop band. James was turned down. He got a no.

  So did the brown-haired boy.

  Sometimes, when one door closes, an even better one opens.

  A little over a year later, in early 2001, there was a knock on the door of James’s parents’ house in Southend. James, hearing it, started to make his way downstairs from the top-floor bedroom he shared with his brother Nick, who was eighteen months younger than he was. They were very different, but they got on like a house on fire. The younger of James’s brothers, Chris, was more like him, but, with a decade between them in age, it would be a few years yet before they could make music together. Sister Melissa, three years older than Chris, completed the Bourne siblings.

  James pulled open the door. He was dressed casually in a pair of pale corduroy trousers and a Mambo T-shirt, with a surfer-style cap balanced on his thick blond hair – all likely sourced from his favourite Southend surf shop, Exile. He was seventeen years old, and currently attending college, studying a music-technology course that was teaching him how to produce his own tracks. In his spare time, he wrote songs – and dreamed of the day when he could quit college and join a band. Maybe, just maybe, the person who had knocked on the door would be the answer to his prayers.

  But the person on his doorstep was too busy taking in the impressive façade of the huge house with the stunning sea view to answer to anything, even his name – Matt Willis or, as he was more commonly known then, Mathew Sargeant, the surname being that of his mother’s new husband, Brian. Matt grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Molesey (a town in well-to-do Surrey, but Matt lived in the dodgy bit), where his mum Linda worked in pubs and his dad, Kevin Willis, made a living working in a factory. Linda and Kevin had met in a working men’s club in the 1970s, had Matt’s brother, Darren, in 1981, and then Matt came along in May 1983. Money was tight – which made James’s house such an eye-opener to the seventeen-year-old Matt – but love was plentiful, both from his parents, even after they split up when Matt was three years old, and from his extended family. One of his earliest memories was of his aunt and uncle playing him Elvis videos; something about the charismatic swagger, musical talent and sheer star quality of the King of Rock and Roll had him hooked, though it would be years before he acted on his natural affinity for showmanship.

  In the meantime, there were rules to be broken and games to be played. Matt was a mischief maker from the word go; by the time he was ten he had broken twenty-eight bones in his body, mostly from dangerous jumps from trees and high walls. Not for nothing was his mum’s nickname for him ‘Fidget’. He would fidget in lessons, too, which led to his leaving one school for another, a reputation as a troublemaker trailing in his wake.

  It was a couple of other well-known troublemakers who would open the door to a whole new life for him, though. One night, Matt and his family were down the pub and there was a karaoke night on. His mum urged him to take the mic, having never heard him sing before. Her request was for Marti Pellow and the dulcet tones of Wet Wet Wet’s ‘Love Is All Around’, but Matt was never one to follow instructions. Instead, he performed the Gallagher brothers’ ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’, his voice rasping impressively above the din in the pub, making people pay attention. Afterwards, a local songwriter came up to Matt and asked him to record one of the writer’s songs for him; that done, without Matt’s knowledge, he sent the demo to the Sylvia Young Theatre School, where there was a scholarship up for grabs.

  The Sylvia Young Theatre School had a reputation that had reached even the working-class streets of Molesey – though it didn’t necessarily have alumni that would appeal to the rebellious young Mathew Sargeant. Spice Girl Emma Bunton and pop princess Billie Piper were both former students, it wasn’t quite the rock roots that Matt was starting to cultivate. He had a passion for Green Day by then, and a band of his own called Sabotage, who diligently covered Green Day songs – albeit without ever performing a single gig. Besides which, Sylvia Young was based in Marylebone, London, and was an independent fee-paying school. There was no way someone like Matt could afford to go there.

  Encouraged by his mum, he nonetheless went to the audition that the songwriter had secured for him. But it was to no avail: the scholarship went elsewhere. Then, unexpectedly, Sylvia Young herself phoned the family and made them a generous offer: if Matt agreed to go on her agency books – through which he could audition for TV shows, adverts and the like – he could pay his school fees using his earnings. It was an extraordinary opportunity, and one that Matt embraced with all the enthusiasm a cool dude with a passion for rock can visibly demonstrate.

  As it happened, his cool vibe stood him in good stead, landing him lots of jobs to help pay his way through theatre school – even if he did always end up cast as the drug dealer in programmes such as Casualty and The Bill. His success enabled him to knuckle down and enjoy his schooldays – in more ways than one. With a ratio of five boys to twenty-four girls in his class, Matt had a field day breaking hearts, including that of a certain Amy Winehouse, an aspiring singer who fancied him something rotten. Matt, however, seemed to have eyes only for his dance teacher, the elfin-faced Ms Michelle Blair, though his affections were never requited.

  But music was his first love, and in March 2000, not long after that failed band audition for Prestige Management, an album that changed his life was released in the UK: Blink-182’s Enema of the State, which boasted class-act tracks such as ‘All the Small Things’ and ‘Adam’s Song’ – iconic anthems about authentic adolescent life. Matt had found what he wanted to do for the rest of his life: form a band and make music. Really, he wanted to be in Blink-182, but it looked as if they were doing pretty well without him. So now his only problem was finding the ideal bandmates with whom he could make his dreams come true. But how was he going to find them among his high-kicking, jazz-handing peers at Sylvia Young?

  Richard Rashman was the answer. Prestige Management’s Rashman had been impressed with both James and Matt at that unsuccessful audition in winter 1999. While neither had been right for that band, he could see they both had talent, and encouraged them to keep at it, particularly with their songwriting. He stayed in touch with them both throughout that following year of 2000, and eventually had the brainwave of connecting them with each other. And so it came to be that early in 2001, Matt Willis stood on the doorstep of James Bourne’s house in Southend, wondering if they might just be able to make some music together.

  ‘Come in,’ said James, and he opened the door wide.

  He led Matt into his parents’ dining room, where a piano was set up next to an imposing eight-track home recording studio. James, like Matt, was a jobbing actor from time to time and had just blown almost his entire £2,000 fee from a recent job on the new equipment. Matt couldn’t help but be impressed with the set-up.

  And he was even more impressed when James started playing him some of the tracks he’d been working on, including an original song called ‘Living Without Your Love’. The two boys had recognised each other a bit when James had first opened the door, perhaps from that failed band audition, but also from other gigs and acting auditions. Now, Matt recognised a kindred spirit.

  There were some other introductions to make. James had just recently started working with a couple of other Rashman-connected musicians: Ki Fitzgerald, who lived in Kent, and Owen Doyle, from Birmingham. The four of them decided to try to work together as a band, at first under the somewhat dubious name of the Termites. Rashman kept a close eye on their burgeoning progress and, on 15 March 2001, each of the boys signed a management deal with Prestige. It was an exciting time, particularly when, the very next day, the band went in for a meeting with Sony. It didn’t come to anything, but the executive they saw was encouraging and it gave them hope that, with a bit of hard work, they might just have something.

  Matt and James hit it off immediately. They literally just sat down together and started writing songs; their partnership came that naturally. Th
e first song they wrote together was a little ballad called ‘Sleeping with the Light On’, but others soon followed over the next few months. ‘Living Without Your Love’ evolved into a track called ‘Psycho Girl’. And when they penned ‘What I Go to School For’, about Matt’s crush on his dance instructor at Sylvia Young, Ms Blair – though they changed her name to Miss Mackenzie – they knew they had something really special. So special, in fact, that James found the courage to quit his college course at Easter, even without a firm record deal in place. It was a brave step, but he believed in both himself and in the music.

  The Termites was not a band name that you could believe in, though, and all four members were keen to change it. Rumours abound about where the name ‘Busted’ came from: some say it was Rashman, others the boys themselves, others still that it was the former Spice Girl Geri Halliwell who coined it, when she mispronounced the name ‘Buster’ as ‘Busted’ after Ki’s sister had called her on an MTV phone-in, to tell her about her brother’s new band. However it came about, from April 2001, ‘Busted’ was the name of the band – and they were on their way.

  James wasn’t the only one taking the band seriously. From summer 2001, Matt pretty much moved into James’s family home in Southend in order to focus on the music they were making; at first just crashing on James’s bedroom floor – until he was there so often that Peter and Maria Bourne insisted on getting him a proper bed. He and James would write and sing together all the time, gathered round the piano in the downstairs dining room. As well as honing the songs they’d already written – with James sharing his enthusiasm for Backstreet Boys’ pop classics – they were still coming up with original material too. One day, they channelled James’s obsessive love of the 1985 film Back to the Future into musical form with a track called ‘Year 3000’.

  Matt became like a new Bourne brother to Chris, Melissa and Nick, and, when Nick received his GCSE exam results during that golden summer, Matt assumed responsibility for teaching him how to celebrate. Nick later told journalist Peter Robinson, ‘[Matt] had a massive party for me in my house. He poured loads of different things in a jug and we drank it. The first time I ever got drunk was with Matt.’