The only thing more glamorous to me at the time than organ bashing at the garrison was Butlins, where my mum took me on holiday when I was little. Hi-de-Hi was my favourite television programme, and I was in love with Su Pollard. I adored the Redcoats and was determined to be one myself. And I managed it, reader, signing on for singing duty with Haven Holidays in Bridport and staying for a year. I loved it, especially dressing up as a cat and singing ‘Memory’. Fine times!
As with the others, The Stage magazine was my Bible, and I used to audition for anything I spotted. I was pretty lucky, getting into two bands in swift succession, which meant moving to London.
The first was a boy band called Volume 5, which, you’re right, sounds like a hairspray. We lived in Oxford Street in bunk beds in our manager’s apartment, and were – how to put this nicely? – shit. But we were all together and the most exciting thing we ever did was turn on the Walthamstow Christmas Lights.
My next band was Tantrum, three boys and two girls, built on the whim of a rich man who wanted us to sing songs for his girlfriend. There were some familiar faces in the auditions – Myleene Klass made it to the shortlist – as well as in the final line-up. Among us was Rita Simons, who played Roxy Mitchell in EastEnders, Ziggy Lichman, who went on to be in the band Northern Line, before turning up as Zac in Big Brother, and a bloke called Jonas. Years later, I turned on Channel 5 one day and there he was, reading the news. It’s a comfortingly small world.
I was in Tantrum for a year, and we got paid a weekly wage. But we soon realised it wasn’t going anywhere, and both my grandparents died during that time. We all knew it was time to move on.
With the money my grandparents left me, I was able to put a deposit on a house in East Finchley and buy myself a bit of time to come to terms with my grief over losing those people so dear to me in such swift succession. I worked as a barman at the Old White Lion in the evening, while by day I was a perfume salesman, standing in the door of Selfridges and spraying people as they walked in. Those two jobs meant I had time to carry on going to auditions in between, and one of those auditions was for a brand new band being put together by someone who sounded like he knew what he was doing.
LEE
Daniel Glatman was a bit of a geek (sorry, Daniel, but you were), very young, but definitely a man on a mission. As he later told it to us, he walked into the record label’s offices, announced, ‘I want to put a boy band together,’ and the boss at the time, Hugh Goldsmith, replied, ‘Okay, go find them, bring them back, and here’s £10,000.’ Why can’t everything in life be that simple? It was only later Daniel revealed to us that what had actually happened was that he’d somehow blagged his way into Hugh’s office, talked a good game until he was blue in the face and eventually been given three months to put a band together, or he’d have to pay the money back.
I’d grown up going to performing arts schools, good ones like Sylvia Young’s Theatre School and the Italia Conti Academy of Theatre Arts, thanks to my mum. She had spotted my singing potential very early on, and she’d been keen to give me the best possible chance at a creative future. I was pretty fortunate in that way – one day, she even spotted me doing my homework, told me to stop because she said it was more important that I learned the harmonies to ‘Endless Love’. It turned out she was right. Years later, I ended up sharing the stage with Lionel Richie, singing another one of his classics, ‘Easy’, so I guess my mum pushed me in the right direction, encouraging my love for all things Motown.
Something else she passed on to me was being a big softy even as a teenager – I once gave away a pair of new shoes to a bloke at a tube station and my mum didn’t even tell me off – but I was also pretty headstrong, certain that I knew it all. I’d walked out of school aged 15, thinking I’d learned everything I was going to need – somehow, I had a good idea that algebra wasn’t going to feature largely in my future. I wasn’t afraid of work, and used to make my money with all sorts of jobs – on a stall, on a roof, anything to make a pound note. But the musical seed had been sown, and I also used to go every week to the newsagent to pick up my copy of The Stage.
It’s so strange to talk about, now everything and everybody is available on the internet, but back then, if you didn’t have an agent, reading the ads at the back of The Stage was the only way to spot what was going on, and for management and record labels to find you. That’s how bloody old we are!
DUNCAN
I’d sent in a picture and a demo tape, and was invited in to meet Daniel. He was young but looked older, and seemed intent on doing well in the industry.
People seemed to be trickling in and out all day. I got up on stage and sang ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’ by Elvis, and then channelled my inner Redcoat with Michael Ball’s ‘Love Changes Everything’. Not perhaps the most cutting-edge choices, but hey, I got a call back and was invited to a singing lesson, where I spotted my old pal Antony, and met Lee again. We’d crossed paths at a previous audition but hadn’t really talked.
My first memory of Lee that day was of his massive, brick-sized phone, and he was arguing with somebody on it. That call obviously ended badly, and he went bonkers, head-butted the phone and then threw it on the floor, where it smashed into a million pieces. He stared at it for a minute, then he looked at me and said, ‘Can I borrow your phone?’ I guess he started as he meant to go on.
He was very smartly dressed, though – I’ll give him that – all nice jeans, smart black shoes, Ben Sherman shirt … My influences had been my skateboarding pals back in Devon, so I had a bit of a baggier thing going on.
LEE
Duncan had on some truly dodgy shirts. He was a bit of a hippy back in those days and his dress sense was terrible – who wears tracksuit bottoms to an audition? Has it improved now? I’m always optimistic. With Dunc, though, it was all about the hair. There was loads of it, hanging over his face, as this little pretty boy was sitting in the corner. He looked a bit stand-offish, but he was probably just shy. And he wouldn’t lend me his phone.
ANTONY
Daniel was happy that Duncan and I already knew each other, so that worked in our favour, and we were the first two to be picked. Then he asked Lee to join, plus two other blokes, Richard and Spencer. Richard was actually one of the lads Lee and I had met during our appearance on This Morning. As well as sharing that strange baptism of fire, he was friendly, very funny, and we all got on well with him. Spencer was a bit more competitive, and, being young lads, we butted heads with him occasionally. Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice enough lad, but we just never really clicked.
DUNCAN
The three of us became really tight with Richard. One of the best times was when we spent a weekend at his family home in Westbeach, where we went out together on jet skis, sang karaoke in a local bar and his mum cooked us all lovely food. They couldn’t have been more welcoming, and Richard was incredibly good fun, really engaging. But I can’t say we connected with Spencer in the same way. However, despite most of us getting on so well, it just didn’t work. Something about that line-up simply didn’t feel right, but none of us said anything, until the day came for us to sign our contract with Virgin Music [10 September 2000].
We were literally in the car on the way there, my phone rang, and it was Daniel. He said, ‘We have a problem. You, Lee and Antony need to get out of the car, make an excuse and get here by yourselves without the other two. I don’t know how you’re going to do this, but you’ll find a way …’
It was ridiculous. I had to make up some excuse about the lawyer not being happy with the contract, saying it would happen the next day, while I was frantically texting Antony and Lee and telling them to meet me up the road. Somehow, the right people got to the Virgin offices, and our management was waiting. They put us on the spot,