Watch a video of one
man's experience at Rock 'n' Roll Fantasy Camp
The posh summer party at the Serpentine Gallery, in Hyde Park, is not where
you expect to be taken by a wannabe rock star yet to release his first
album. Last month’s event may have had a glamorous guest list — Naomi
Campbell, Mario Testino, Lady Helen Taylor — but in truth it was a staid
affair, attended mostly by bankers, financiers, CEOs and their
designer-dressed wives.
Gavin Aldred goes every year. But the front man of the melodic rockers GTA is
far from your average aspiring musician. For a start, he is 52. He is also a
multimillionaire, having run a string of companies, latterly the fashion
chain New Look. After semi-retiring to the south of France, Aldred installed
a state-of the-art recording studio in his home and began making music. Or
rather, began taking music seriously, having written songs as a hobby since
his teens.
“I got my first guitar aged 10, and music has kept me sane ever since,” says
Aldred, a father of two twentysomethings who eschews the party’s formal
dress code for jeans and a quirky appliquéd jacket. “As kids, a friend and I
played covers for fun, but I was always more interested in making my own
music.”
Aldred comes from a working-class family in Eccles, near Manchester, and
insists that a career in music was never an option. At 13, he got his first
job in a jeans shop; at 18, he joined Marks & Spencer as a management
trainee. Despite his rapid rise through the retail ranks, he clung to his
dream of rock stardom and is now using his personal fortune and business
contacts to try to make it come true. GTA’s first gig, two years ago, was at
the Albert Hall, opening for Goldfrapp, after Aldred asked Roger Daltrey to
add them to the bill at a Teenage Cancer Trust show. Their debut album,
Songs for Sale (available from www.gta.la), was recorded in Dublin with Van
Morrison’s engineer and mixed by Robbie Adams (Beck, U2, Smashing Pumpkins)
at Westlake Studios, in LA, where Michael Jackson made Thriller. Their first
single, Feel, was stocked exclusively in M&S (“Stuart Rose is an old
mate,” explains Aldred), with all profits donated to the trust.
While Songs for Sale may not set the charts on fire, Aldred’s money has
certainly perked up its prospects. When his singing wasn’t up to scratch, he
hired Bono’s vocal coach. When he wanted to play guitar better, he asked the
former Pretender Robbie McIntosh — whose first solo album he part-funded —
to teach him. His band includes several members of the cult Irish act
Picturehouse, who suggested improvements to the music.
“I am aware how fortunate I am to be able to make a proper, professional
album,” admits Aldred, who now lives in LA, where he spends five days a week
in his studio with a full-time engineer. “My colleagues thought I was mad,
but I’m not playing at this. I want the record to be a success.”
Aldred may be unusual in quitting a highly paid job for music, but he isn’t
alone in splashing his cash to pursue his rock’n’roll dreams. While
teenagers attempt to emulate musical icons on the computer game Guitar Hero,
anyone with seven grand to spare can spend five days with the real deal.
Launched in America 11 years ago by the promoter David Fishof, Rock’n’Roll
Fantasy Camp is a workshop at which the likes of Slash, Micky Dolenz, Jack
Bruce and
Roger Daltrey turn up to give lessons, spill rock-star secrets and join your
temporary band. The camp came to Britain for the first time last year and
returns next month, with Bill Wyman, Pink Floyd’s drummer, Nick Mason, and
the former Beach Boy Jeffrey Foskett among the tutors.
Campers get help with writing songs and learning covers, which they record at
Abbey Road Studios, then play live at Liverpool's Cavern Club. “The
number-one occupation in the world is rock star,” says an effusive Fishof.
“Fantasy Camp gives ordinary people the opportunity to know what it’s like.
All sorts come, from doctors to soldiers back from Iraq to teenagers whose
parents have bought them a place as a present. Mostly, however, they are
male business executives. They’ll do three or four camps, sometimes six or
seven. Like all members of the public, they love to hang out with famous
musicians.”
Indeed, as album sales plummet, many musicians are milking the fact that their
celebrity lure has never been stronger. When pop stars are booked to play
private parties, part of the deal is that they mingle with guests
afterwards. Some acts sell pricey “VIP” tickets to their concerts, with
drinks backstage and the chance to meet the star — you can have your photo
taken with Patti LaBelle or get a guided tour of Def Leppard’s drum kit. It
explains why people now invest in new bands — few expect to see a return on
their money, but if the band become famous, they expect to have access.
Yet surely the likes of Wyman and Mason don’t teach for the fees? “The biggest
surprise has been how much the rock stars enjoy it,” Fishof says. “The first
time Nick Mason came, he was booked for a day and ended up staying for four.
Bill Wyman came to give a masterclass one morning and was there 12 hours
later. These guys have had great success and realise that’s largely down to
their fans. Teaching is them giving something back.” Mason agrees: “One of
the joys of the camp is that it’s not full of wannabe X Factor folk. Most of
the people who come play as a hobby and just want to be better. They are not
fantasising about the lifestyle aspects of fame. They come because it’s a
really fun few days.”
For Foskett, currently musical director for Brian Wilson, next month’s Fantasy
Camp will be his fourth. “Because of the cost, the campers tend to genuinely
love music,” he says. “But a big part of the appeal is hanging out with rock
stars. A lot of A-list celebrities show up unannounced on the day. You never
know who you might meet. People get addicted to mixing with musicians and
come back again and again.
If you have done well in life, it’s a good way to spend your money. Well, it’s
better than blowing it on drugs or big cars.”
Only twice has Foskett come across campers who could make a career from music.
One was a 17-year-old guitarist, the other a twentysomething woman who
already sang in a band. Mostly, then, it’s well-off middle-aged men playing
at being professional musicians. “There was one guy last year who mailed me
to say that, after 38 years in banking, he was leaving to try to make it in
music,” Fishof recalls.
“He said he wouldn’t be coming back to the camp because he wouldn’t be able to
afford it. But it’s not about people ditching their day jobs to become
wannabe rock stars. It’s about giving them an experience they will never
forget.”
That, and perhaps reminding them that, had they been braver when they were
younger, their life might have been more exciting? “That’s rubbish,” Mason
sniffs. “It’s quite apparent that the life of a hedge-fund manager contains
more pharmaceuticals and wild living than that of most modern rock stars —
and, right now, theirs is a far more insecure occupation.”
