Little Star

stuck two tiers below the top level.

If it had been just one tier, his artists would probably have stuck with him even if they got their big break, and would then have hauled him up with them. As it stood, if things started to go too well they left him when their contracts ran out.

He was fortunate enough to sign a completely unknown band, Stormfront, on a five-year contract that was dubiously advantageous for him; he then saw them break through after only a year. This made him plenty of money, but also led to a whole lot of bad feeling. The band bad-mouthed him constantly and called him a parasite: what should have been his great success turned out to be the beginning of his decline.

A few years after Stormfront had left him, pissing on his hall carpet by way of a farewell gift, the situation was completely reversed.

The only young artists he had any chance with were those who hadn’t heard of him. Or those who knew exactly who he was, but were desperate. He still had his contacts, in spite of everything.

By the end of the nineties there was a saying in the industry that summed up the situation perfectly: ‘Max Hansen-the last chance’. There were still songwriters, producers and record companies he could turn to if there was anything brewing, but they were down at the lower end of the scale, and the good times were over.

One thing remained unchanged: his taste for young girls. Since it was no longer enough to say hi to the right people in order to make an impression (and since the right people no longer said hi back), he had to bring in the heavy artillery to get the tender young flesh into his bed: the half promises.

Times had changed. In the mid-eighties, the dream of fame had been just that-an unattainable dream for most people. But now, thanks to the reality TV explosion, Lisa from Skelleftea and Mugge from Sundbyberg could suddenly believe, in all seriousness, that they were rising stars, that something big was just around the corner, and they grabbed at every opportunity.

Max hung out in the Spy Bar, keeping an eye out for anyone whose star had noticeably begun to fade. Those who had done the suburban clubs and shopping malls, and who now had only the odd gig with a backing track in a small-town pizza joint to keep the dream alive. Then he struck.

In this context his nickname, ‘Last chance’ was no liability. The girls in question were usually painfully aware that their moment had passed, even when they kept up a good front. ‘Last chance’ at least meant there was a chance, and that was what Max told them.

Untapped potential, a good stylist, a songwriter I know who’s worked with the Backstreet Boys, this guy at the record company who’s looking for someone exactly like you, contacts in Asia, they absolutely love Swedish girls over there.

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it bombed. In November 1999 Max recorded his first shag-free month since he was twenty. He got a hair transplant to restore his fringe, had a few wrinkles ironed off his upper lip and considered his situation.

It wasn’t that he actually scammed the girls. He did give them a few numbers to call, occasionally set up the odd meeting. With a girl from Big Brother he even managed to get her song listed as ‘bubbling under’ on Tracks, plus a few gigs in shopping malls. OK, so his promises were dubious, but these were hard times.

He decided to change tactics. Trawling in Spy Bar had become more and more difficult, and he decided to go back to basics. He started turning up at the public end-of-term concerts at music schools, and he kept an eye on the young girls who sang on TV, then got in touch.

Sometimes he would manage to get one of them into a manufactured group for a tour in Japan, or fix a couple of appearances at games fairs where they needed a Lara Croft. He recorded videos of girls dancing in their underwear, and he made the position clear: they could put out or push off, and yes, he was intending to film it.

One evening when he was sitting on his sofa half-drunk, jerking off to a DVD of a girl he had taped a couple of days earlier dancing clumsily to ‘Oops, I Did It Again’, he realised he had reached some kind of rock bottom, and that he hadn’t the slightest desire to do anything about it. Then he came and fell asleep.

That was the situation when Max Hansen switched on the television at the end of September 2006 to watch ‘agony week’ on Idol. Every single boy and girl he saw on the program had some measure of talent, and he thought he could predict the ones who would get through, and how things would go for them after that. He was really after those who were voted off.

An incredibly pretty and innocent girl from Simrishamn piqued his appetite, but he suspected she was one of the ones where all contact had to go via the parents. However, he did make a note of her name as a possibility for business rather than penetration.

Then came Tora Larsson with ‘Life on Mars’, arousing something in him that was usually fast asleep: his curiosity. He couldn’t work her out. He had been in the business for such a long time, and was musical enough to recognise a matchless voice when he heard it, but the girl herself? And her performance? What was all that about? Was it fantastic, or utter crap?

For once he had no idea how things would go for her, even though her voice echoed in his head long after she had stopped singing. She was pretty as a picture and at the same time ice-cold, in a way that was both repellent and arousing.

Tora got through, and the following day Max got hold of her contact details through an acquaintance at TV4. An address, nothing more. He printed out his standard letter with some modifications, but decided to wait and see how things went before sending it. Presumably she would have received a number of offers.

He watched the program when Tora sang ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’. He was pleased when she went out, because that increased his chances. If he had ever seen an uncut diamond, he was looking at one right now. She had the voice and the appearance going for her, more than most in fact, but there was a hell of a lot missing if she wanted to have a successful career and become really popular.

And who would polish this diamond if not Max Hansen? Filled with inspiration, he dispensed with his standard letter and put together a new one, in which he went through her current qualities and defects, explained how he could help her, and outlined the opportunities that were open to her.

As usual he exaggerated a fair amount, but there was still a significant level of truth in what he wrote. He managed to convince himself that he just wanted to take her under his wing and help this fragile plant to grow, and so on. He almost got tears in his eyes; it was only the discovery that he had got an erection while he was writing that brought him back to reality.

He went straight down to the post box to send the letter. By the time he got back to the apartment, a part of him was already waiting anxiously for a reply.

He wanted this. Oh, how he wanted this.

***

The Idol adventure had been quite taxing for both Jerry and Theres, although in very different ways. It had changed them, and it had changed their relationship. Jerry had been forced to bring out aspects of himself that he didn’t know existed, and he had seen elements of Theres that were completely new to him.

It had begun at the very first audition. On the subway he had asked her what she had actually said to console all those weeping girls, and Theres had replied, ‘Words.’

‘I get that. But what kind of words?’

‘Normal words. The way things are.’

That was all he could get out of her, and his curiosity would eventually be satisfied by something that happened.

Theres sailed through the various stages of the Idol auditions in the spring and summer as if it was something completely natural, while Jerry became more and more exhausted. He hadn’t realised there was so much of it. He thought you just turned up, sang for the judges, were either accepted or not accepted, and then you were ready for the program.

But that wasn’t how it worked. After the preliminary audition at the Grand Hotel, Theres was asked to come back three days later with the same number, the same clothes and the same hairstyle to avoid any continuity problems; she had then sung for the main judging panel, got through and been congratulated by a small group of