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disappointments.
    In 1966, after joining a band called Listen, some scouts from CBS Records liked what they heard. They were awestruck by Robert’s strong voice and nearly as impressed with his nonstop body gyrations on stage. CBS signed the band to record three singles, the first of which was a slick remake of the Young Rascals hit “You Better Run.” It was released with little fanfare, however, and attracted even less attention from radio stations and record buyers. It was a brutal introduction to the music industry.
    Robert was discouraged but not defeated by the lack of recognition the record received. “It’ll happen,” he told friends, trying to keep his own confidence level high. “I believe in myself, and that’s half the battle.” In fact, he was battling his own inner turmoil, beginning to wonder if anything would ever really start to break in his favor.
    In 1967, CBS Records asked Robert to record two additional singles to fulfill its contract with Listen. It seemed like a wonderful opportunity—the chance to go into the studio on his own. But Robert’s excitement was crushed by CBS’s selection of the songs he would record. One of them, “Our Song,” was a lushly orchestrated Italian ballad for which English lyrics had been written. One of Robert’s friends said, “What the hell are they trying to do to him? Turn Robert into the next Tom Jones?” Robert was embarrassed by the record. He almost felt like going into hiding or personally melting down all the vinyl on which it was pressed. His instincts about it may have been correct: “Our Song” sold an unremarkable 800 copies as the record company did, in fact, try to promote him as a Tom Jones incarnate—a campaign about as successful as the Edsel. At least for the moment, a very downcast Robert saw his recording career hit a nasty brick wall.
    â€œIf my mom hadn’t bought a copy of the records, the damn things wouldn’t have sold at all,” Robert joked. He wasn’t exaggerating by much.
    During this time, despite his middle-class background, Robert became a Mod, wearing Chelsea boots and snugfitting jackets and joining battles with Rockers in the borough of Margate. He also cut his long, blond locks into a French style that he patterned after Steve Marriott, the lead singer of Small Faces, who had posed the compelling musical question, “How’s your bird’s lumbago?” during a concert Robert attended in Birmingham.
    With Robert’s musical career sputtering, his parents tried again to steer him in more traditional directions. “Why don’t you study to become a chartered accountant?” his worried mother suggested. Robert was dejected enough already—and now this!
    Even though Robert was intelligent enough to recognize that he might be reaching for an impossible dream, he was upset with the lack of support from his parents in his musical pursuits. He still thought he had a shot at stardom, even while his mom and dad wondered whether he would ever outgrow his “fantasies” about making a career in music. He felt frustrated, hurt, and sometimes angry. At times when he was home, he sensed a growing emotional wedge between him and his parents. On some level, he desperately wanted to prove to them that he could succeed in music.
    Nevertheless, to make peace in the family, Robert finally agreed to some accountant’s training, even though his heart was still possessed by blues performers like Robert Johnson, Tommy McClellan, Otis Rush, Muddy Waters, and Sonny Boy Williamson, whose records he often found in the junk shops he used to scour.
    After just two weeks of accountant’s training, Robert threw in the towel. He was being paid a forgettable two pounds a day, but even more important, he realized that there was much more to life than ledgers and balance sheets. “I just don’t want to spend my whole life counting