The Wrong Tom McRae

In the week Midnight Cowboy opens in London....

One bright Summer morning in 2019, I was driving to a meeting in the East Sussex town of Hastings: a small drinking town with a fishing problem.

Someone was interested in making a musical of Midnight Cowboy, the 1969 Oscar-winning movie, starring John Voigt and Dustin Hoffman. Surprised to be invited I thought briefly about saying no, but because I like to try new things and because you never know how things turn out, I said yes.

Two hours into the three hour drive — it dawned on me— is it possible I’m the wrong Tom McRae?

Hastings is a long way from my old home in Wiltshire. Hastings is a long way from anywhere. Not geographically, but logistically. It’s the town train timetables and motorways forgot. It simultaneously doesn’t want you to find the place, or leave it once you have. Getting there—and pretending to know about musical theatre—could prove equally challenging.

I knew nothing about musicals back then. They were things to be endured from my childhood Christmas. In those days there were only three tv channels, and The Sound Of Music seemed to be on all of them.

Somewhere I’d heard the theory that the very worst form of art is a bad musical—and the second worst is a great musical—but I told myself writing one might be fun, or at least different. There was also talk of being paid. Which in the world of modern songwriting, is very different.

All I knew about Midnight Cowboy was the people invited to the meeting. Marie Novak, a much-revered French publisher with a track record for spotting a success. Blair Mackichan, writer of hit songs for the likes of Sia, Kendrick Lamar, and Lilly Allen. And presiding over the whole thing would be Blair’s manager, Tina.

Oh, and some builder whose name I forget, who’d bought the rights to Midnight Cowboy while on honeymoon in Morocco. Someone should write a musical about that.

With no hits—or even near misses to my name—I was a little confused to be asked along, but I hoped that my lyrical genius was finally being recognised. My career had briefly flickered in France many years ago, maybe that was the reason for the invitation? The French like my lyrics, I told myself. The ego is quick to play tricks, and ambition slow to die.

The countryside flashed by, fields of wheat ripening. A playlist of hit musicals blasting on the car stereo. These songs were growing on me. The melodrama and unfiltered joy were infectious, but seemed a world away from the sort of songs I write. I started to grow anxious.

When my phone rang I already knew what was coming. With the impending sense of doom that accompanies many of my thoughts (and most of my songs) I pulled the car over, expecting to turn round and drive back home.

There was a slight pause, then I heard Tina’s voice.

Are you the Tom McRae who wrote the musical, “Everybody’s Talking About Jamie”?

Ah. No. That was Tom MacRae, extra A.

Of course! Why would I have been invited to this meeting unless it was a case of mistaken identity? I am definitely the wrong Tom McRae.

I know the right Tom MacRae a little bit, including how to spell his name. He’s a successful screenwriter now living in Los Angeles. At the birth of social media when people posted pictures of their breakfast instead of fomenting fascism, we had occasionally been in touch.

I told him I was once mistakenly sent a cheque for a Doctor Who episode he’d written, and he admitted pretending to be me at a party in 2001. There is also an Al Jazeera journalist called Tom McRae. One day we’ll stage a gathering, from which only one victor will emerge. The smart money isn’t on me.

Come anyway, said Tina. Do you like seafood?

Because you never know how things turn out—and because I like seafood—I said yes.

* * *

Fast forward to two years later, and I’m in a rehearsal room in London’s West End, watching a cast read-through of the musical, where my songs are being performed for the money men.

It is a surreal experience. Both for me and my co-writer, Blair. None of us dreamed it would get to this point. Before we start, I am once again introduced as The Wrong Tom McRae. Everyone laughs a little too loudly. It’s a room full of actors, after all.

Later, drinking wine with the cast and director in a private members’ club, it seems possible the musical will actually make it to the stage. I try to contain my excitement. Things don’t always work out, at least not often in my experience. But I stay open to possibility. One day, I tell myself, the law of averages dictates…

Then covid came along. Normal life stopped. Musical theatre stopped, and the idea of Midnight Cowboy simply evaporated, like quick-drying hand sanitizer.

Many creative projects come to nothing, especially musicals. They are notoriously long in the making, and expensive to produce. I chalked it up to experience and forgot about the money I was owed. Not a huge sum, it would barely have covered my fuel for those many circuitous journeys to and from Hastings.

So it was something of a surprise to read an article last week, announcing the opening of Midnight Cowboy, a new musical featuring songs by renowned songwriter, Francis ‘Eg’ White.

As surprises go, it ranks alongside the time my third record was made Album of The Week on Radio 2. I tuned in to hear my first track, only to find I’d been bumped in favour of KT Tunstall. I’d even been into the BBC and recorded my interview. I am a duck—I told myself—and these things merely rain.

I searched for information about the new musical, watched clips online and read long interviews ‘Eg’ White had given in the press. The project had been sold on, our songs lowered into the sealed vault in which dwell all unheard songs.

No one told me or my new Hastings friends about this turn of events. We had laboured for almost three years, but not one of us received so much as an email.

That’s showbiz. Our musical didn’t happen, the dream of walking the red carpet to receive my Olivier Award didn’t happen. Being whisked off to Disney to replace Lin-Manuel Miranda, didn’t happen.

Life is made up of lists of things that did and didn’t happen. Both have their place, their significance.

For instance, on that bright Summer morning, because I didn’t turn the car around—and because I like seafood— I did meet Tina.

Tina is a warrior. In an another life, she may have led a tribe into battle. She may yet. If there is only one of you—and Tina is on your side—you constitute an army.

Tina has a big house in Hastings that isn’t so much a house as a safe haven for creative people of all stripes. Music can be heard any time, night or day. It’s usually my friend Blair at the piano, tweezing out another hit for the latest rising star.

To describe the 60-year-old Blair as still a child-prodigy is about right. Exhausting doesn’t cover it. Neither does genius. He is possessed of an extraordinary talent. I use the word advisedly. Songs visit him like restless spirits from the nether world, desperate to be heard. I am in awe of him. And slightly scared.

Because I didn’t turn the car around, I did meet Blair.

Also in the house, presiding over the raucous proceedings, is the calming presence of Tina’s husband, Dick. One of the world’s top mastering engineers. Dick recently re-mastered my debut album. His office is lined with many gold and platinum records. If mastering ever has a hall of fame, Dick’s statue will stand outside, welcoming you in.

That long hot summer, before the world stopped, they welcomed me into their home, and into their circle of kind and talented friends.

Marie—or Mami Novak—as she is known (for her wisdom and pastoral care in the brutal world of music publishing) dropped by occasionally with lunch for us all. While working on the musical, she also asked me to write for a couple of French artists, and her label commissioned me to translate some classic French pop songs. That work kept me solvent during covid. Later, I went on to make an album of my own featuring duets with French artists, most of them introduced to me by Marie.

I didn’t turn the car around, but I did meet Tina, Dick, Blair and Marie.

Because some of the songs I wrote with Blair were pretty good, but mostly because she is like this, Tina negotiated a new publishing deal for me, which means I get all the rights to my songs back in 2026. No small thing for a songwriter in this day and age.

Through that deal, I was reacquainted with an old music business ally and legendary A&R man, Ian Ramage—who invited me to last year’s Ivor Novello awards. I sat two metres away from my hero Bruce Springsteen, and witnessed another hero, Paul McCartney, hand him his award. Next month I’m going with Ian to see Springsteen in Marseille. I have things to look forward to. I need things to look forward to.

Recently I find myself somewhat adrift, but Tina and Dick have once again welcomed me into their home. We talk history, and the future of music—which may be the same thing—and watch the latest tv shows. After a while Tina drifts off to the kitchen, and proceeds to fight other people’s battles for them, long into the night.

Blair is still as gravid with songs as a sturgeon with eggs. He makes me laugh, and his songs make me cry. His wife Anna can read a room and knows instantly what everyone needs, what burdens they carry. If she likes you, she silently offers to share the weight. I feel lighter in her presence.

Occasionally I email The Right Tom MacRae, with offers of work that mistakenly get sent my way. I forward all the fan mail he gets, gushing with praise for Jamie! I also forward him the replies I send to his fans. Whenever I’m in LA we try and meet for coffee. I keep an eye on the door, should the Tom McRae from Al Jazeera show up. There can be only one.

In Hastings I am still The Wrong Tom McRae, but I’m in the right place. At least for now. My phone occasionally rings with offers of things that either do or don’t work out. Maybe one day it’ll ring again, with another crazy idea. And because I like to try new things, and because you never know how things turn out—I’ll probably say yes.

“Midnight Cowboy” with songs by Eg White opened last week at The Southwark Playhouse, April 4 - May 17. “Clueless” with songs by KT Tunstall is on at The Trafalgar Theatre until March 2026. “Everybody’s Talking About Jamie” has been staged all around the world, and made into a movie. Michel Polnareff’s “Lettre À France” (translated by me) was recently covered by Yael Naim. Another Tom McRae still reports for Al Jazeera. The Right Tom MacRae is hard at work in LA on other musicals. And his sword skills.

.